Blood Wind
by Gone2Far
Summary: Blood, the 'Murder Winds', a full moon and a psychopath.
1. Just Another Mystery

Blood Wind - Chapter 1

**Thank you for the reviews and alerts on the prologue. Hope you didn't feel cheated by such a short posting. Here's a longer chapter to tide you over until I can work out some of the gaping holes in the plot. Right now, they're large enough to contain William Shatner's ego with enough room left over to park a bus or two. (No offense to Mr. Shatner, I like him.)**

**Please review!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own them. If I did, there'd be a nice, shiny, new car sitting in my driveway instead of the rustmobile.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Just Another Mystery

LAPD was territorial . . . but not stupid. This was the fifth killing with the same M.O. in as many weeks. Painstaking investigation and hours of overtime had produced nada.

Los Angeles was a happenin' town. It had its share of homicides as a daily occurrence. People who flocked here from many different cultures killed each other for as many different reasons.

Here, murder was nothing new. It was as old as the adobes that lined Olvera Street; old as the narrow alleys and decrepit wood framed cottages perched on the hillsides of Boyle Heights.

Like movies or cosmetic surgery, murder was almost an industry in this city. The LAPD had plenty of practice bringing murderers to justice but, it was time to throw in the towel. The California Bureau of Investigation got the call.

Lisbon, Jane, Cho, Rigsby and VanPelt had all flown into LAX together on an early evening commuter from Sacramento. Last minute booking had them scattered throughout the plane. No two of the team sat together.

On the short flight, each had time to get lost in their own inner worlds. Cho, as was his usual habit, opened a book. Rigsby and VanPelt craned their necks to find each other in the rows of crowded seating. Like their derailed office romance, they couldn't be together but, they took great comfort in not being apart.

Lisbon was going over the files e-mailed to her, then printed out and stuffed into a couple of fat manilla folders shortly before they left for the airport. She'd always liked to have a hard copy. From experience, she didn't trust that her laptop wouldn't do something that would make her want to take out her gun and blow the damned thing into tiny little electronic pieces.

Jane, who sat across the aisle from her, did as he usually does on flights; he stared out the window, lost in whatever quicksilver thoughts flitted through his mind. This was one of the only times he sat without reading or working on one of his Sudoku or other puzzles. It was one of the only times he sat absolutely still.

Lisbon was positive that a hyperactive child had turned into the hyperactive adult that was their consultant but, after years of working together, she still didn't know why he stared blankly out the windows of airplanes. _Just another mystery about this odd but brilliant man,_ she sighed to herself, _one of so many._

Looking up from her reports to give eyes and mind a break, she studied Jane who now seemed miles away from where he actually sat. In the bright sunlight, he looked tired. He'd been involved in every case they'd caught in the last couple of months and there were many. Though it had worked out great for their solve-rate, she could tell it was wearing on him. He hadn't whined about it as he usually would but, his face looked hollow and drawn. She didn't think he'd been getting even the amazingly small amount of sleep he required. She was glad she remembered to pack the drugs; with Jane, one never knew.

The wheels of the Airbus touched down with a thump as night was beginning to fall and the sky had turned an angry color; not unlike molten lava. From the air, the city below had looked to be on fire. The buildings glowed in the eerie red light of sunset.

Every year, in late autumn, the Santa Anas sucked the moisture out of the air, the vegetation and the populace. This lack of humidity, accompanied by searing heat, triggered wildfires that cleared overgrown brush and sometimes entire subdivisions from the brittle landscape. Huge amounts of dust and smoke particles in the atmosphere filtered and distorted sunlight until the sky itself looked ablaze but, the cause of this display, made it no less spectacular.

Here in the 'Golden State', it was just part of the rhythm along with smog, traffic and the occasional melt-down of major or minor celebrities. The melt-downs always resulted in the celeb's spokesperson trying to explain it away as 'exhaustion' and then, of course, genuine or feigned remorse from the celebrity him or herself, then . . . rehab. Sometimes they grasped onto religion and declared themselves 'reborn'. If their first entrance wasn't enough, trying again probably couldn't hurt.

Just part of the ambience.

...

There was no luggage to claim as each one of them carried their perpetually packed carry-on stored at the office for just such occasions. After de-planing, Lisbon, with the rest filing behind her like ducklings, quickly found her way to the auto rental counter at the edge of the chaotic jumble of LAX.

The shuttle to which they were directed, carried them to the car-rental lot and they piled efficiently into the huge SUV. They drove directly to the observatory without first bothering to check into their hotel. Jane, as usual, took a seat at the rear of the vehicle and produced a Sudoku paperback from the pocket of the suit jacket he'd draped across the back of his seat. He began to work with a stubby pencil.

It was full-on 'rush hour' and Lisbon, behind the wheel, stared gloomily out at the other vehicles trapped in this slow-moving queue on the 405 Freeway. She was glad she didn't live here.

"Jane", said Rigsby, "didn't you use to live somewhere around here?"

VanPelt tried to warn off the big detective with her eyes.

"Not actually here", said Jane, tearing himself away from his puzzle. "Malibu's still a few miles northwest of here. You're not far off though."

"How far is it from where we are now?" continued Rigsby, not yet getting the hint from VanPelt.

"In L.A. everything is measured in time, not miles. It could take anywhere between thirty-five minutes to two hours to get there from here, depending on traffic."

Even though he'd officially moved to Sacramento, Jane didn't think anyone was aware he'd still kept his house. Certainly no one was aware of the smiley face in oxidized blood on the wall of the master bedroom. It was why he didn't just follow his wife and daughter into oblivion. It was his material reminder that he had something to do before he could leave.

Grace VanPelt, ever the one most attuned to what could be potentially sensitive matters, secretively pinched Wayne Rigsby on the arm. Rigsby yelped and said "Hey, cut it out Grace!" . . . so much for subtlety.

"Don't worry Grace", smiled Jane as he watched the interaction in amusement. "Rigsby isn't in any danger of upsetting me." With that he returned to his puzzle, tapping his finger on his lips as he concentrated. It wasn't a good thing to have nothing with which to occupy him. He only got into trouble.

Rigsby's open face registered surprise as he rubbed his arm and it belatedly dawned on him that he may have brought up something best left alone. He mouthed a silent, "Oh", toward VanPelt as she knit her elegant brow and frowned at him as further warning.

Changing the subject, Rigsby said, "Hey, boss, could we stop to get something to eat on the way? I'm starving!"

"That's something new." muttered Cho from the seat beside Lisbon but, he was actually glad Rigsby had brought up the subject of food.

Lisbon resignedly steered the big vehicle off the freeway down the first offramp that featured a fast-food sign. They probably wouldn't have time to eat anything later and she didn't want to listen to any whining.

Burritos and drinks were ordered from a giant fiberglass mouse wearing a sombrero.

"Don't you just love L.A.!" said Jane with what seemed like misplaced enthusiasm. "I love ordering food from mice in hats!"

"Beats that giant pickle in Fresno." said Cho without expression in voice or appearance.

"My favorite is still that big, orange, chicken on the way to Visalia." smiled Rigsby.

"No, I got that beat. What about the big donut, you know, the one in Modesto? You can actually drive through the hole." said VanPelt in what seemed near wonder.

"Nah, the chicken wears an apron and a chef's hat, now that's cool." countered Rigsby

"You like clothing on animals? I knew you were weird." said Cho

Everyone joined in an extended conversation about the best anthropomorphized, (made to seem human), rodent, bird, vegetable, pastry, etcetera from which they'd ever ordered food. That is, everyone but Lisbon who was feeling the beginning of a headache and that she was driving a school bus filled with fifth graders.

The drive-thru line was way too long. The exhaust fumes from the idling engines ahead just aggravated the tightening she felt around the back of her head. They finally got their food, distributed it to the proper recipients and ate in the car on the way.

Jane, who'd been somewhat disappointed the sombreroed mouse didn't have tea on the menu, was slurping happily on a large lemonade in the back seat as Rigsby, legendary for his eating prowess, ecstatically wolfed down a carne asada burrito with extra cheese and guacamole. The SUV became silent as everyone concentrated on eating and the only sound was the rustle of food wrappers and the gurgle of straws as the last remaining drops of moisture were sucked from the paper cups.

When they finally arrived at the Griffith Park Observatory, it was fully dark. Like the beacon of a lighthouse, they were guided to the crime scene by the halogen lights of the crime scene investigators. It turned night into day. There was a small herd of L.A.'s uniformed finest gathered on the steep, imposing steps that led up to the western observation terrace. Nearly as many plain clothes investigators and technicians milled about looking 'cop-like'.

Jane's mind wandered as he looked up from the broad landing at the bottom of the steps to the group of peace officers and CSI techs. One could go to any city in the U.S., or anywhere in the world for that matter, and pick the cops out of a crowd.

There was something about their stance; about the set of their faces; even his own elite group had the look. He wondered if this 'look' was simply acquired by osmosis when you worked daily next to other cops or did you have to seek it out and practice until successful? Was it handed to you like a diploma when you graduated from the academy? Maybe it was sold as 'Essence of Cop' like cologne at the same stores where you could purchase uniforms and holsters? Even his petite boss and the stunning VanPelt had this look; certainly Cho and Rigsby had it in spades.

Jane idly wondered if, some day, he himself would unknowingly acquire it . . . though he probably needn't worry. He was, after all, only a consultant, not a real cop with a real gun and real bullets and stuff. He was only 'cop adjacent' as he'd described himself to a suspect in another case. Maybe the 'look' was brought on by the burden of knowing the thing clipped into your holster could end another's life with only the twitch of a finger? He sighed and gave up the thought for the moment.

"Just another mystery", he mumbled to himself.

An impressively mustachioed, olive-skinned man approached them. He was trim and compact with crisp salt and pepper hair and was dressed in a polo shirt and chinos. His badge was clipped to his belt.

"I'm Ben Ortega, Detective in Charge. You guys the team from the CBI?" Lisbon nodded and smiled politely, shook his hand firmly and introduced the group one-by-one.

"I'm Teresa Lisbon, Senior Agent in Charge, this is my second in command Agent Kimball Cho, agents Wayne Rigsby and Grace VanPelt and our consultant Patrick Jane."

Jane smiled as he was introduced and shook the detective's hand. Ortega looked at him a little quizzically but his face creased in a friendly smile showing even, white teeth.

Ortega addressed Lisbon as he spoke. "Well, sorry to say that this looks like another one. Same M.O. as the previous four." He faced Lisbon when he spoke because he recognized the leader of the pack, not just by rank but, by her air of authority. He didn't turn to the men in the group as so often happened.

Lisbon noted his deference. It had been a long, hard road to where she now stood in cop hierarchy. The fact that she was attractive and petite didn't really help but, she more than made up for it with a no-nonsense intensity and lack of girly mannerisms that meant business . . . not that she wasn't feminine.

Her consultant, in fact, thought her feminine and also quite beautiful; though maybe not in the conventional sense. Her porcelain skin, clear green eyes and dark, glossy hair gave her an almost ethereal quality. Sure, the statuesque, red-haired Grace VanPelt was certainly the more traditional vision of beauty, but there was something about Teresa Lisbon.

As he was wont to do at crime scenes, Jane wandered off immediately after his introduction. He strolled across the grass to the astronomer's monument which sat before the main observatory building. It was a tall concrete spire in art-deco style with six larger than life sized figures around it depicting the well-known Copernicus, Galileo and Newton as well as three others. As was the observatory itself, it was all swooping edges and streamlined shapes. He stared up at the edifice, mesmerized.

Ortega looked at Lisbon questioningly as they saw the consultant standing transfixed in front of the monument.

She volunteered, "It's just part of his technique, don't let it worry you." As though she'd said it a hundred times before . . . and probably had.

The L.A. detective still looked skeptical but took her word for it and escorted them the rest of the way to the crime scene while filling them in on what was, so far, known about the series of murders. It was pretty much what they'd already learned from the files sent right before they left Sacramento. VanPelt had read some of the information aloud to them on the long ride over.

After several minutes reviewing what they knew against what they could see before them, Lisbon walked quietly over to where Jane stood lost in his trance. He seemed fascinated by the monument but Jane was always distracted by what Lisbon called 'shiny things' and would frequently wander off course. It was part of her job to make sure he stayed on task. He suddenly became aware of her presence and glanced over his shoulder to see her looking at him questioningly. She raised her eyebrows without saying anything. She was, of course, wordlessly telling him it was time to practice his unique talents. It was time to get to work.

They walked together up the steps to the object of this investigation which sprawled nearly bloodless on the first landing from the top. The blood that had belonged inside it was now congealing to a red/black sludge on the still baking concrete and had wended its way in small rivulets down the risers to the next landing where it pooled once again.

Jane stood unmoved and unmoving while he took in this still-life in blood. He was thinking this should go smoothly enough . . . well, at least for him, (the victim would surely disagree if she could), until the strong breeze shifted and carried with it that coppery mammal scent, hot and strong. He shivered in spite of the heated gust. Maybe he was just tired. It had been awhile since any of them had gotten some down time.

The power of scent always amazed him. It could bring to mind a spring day, a first love, or even a first car. But for him, that metallic smell brought cataclysmic memories in Technicolor. The unwelcome images would haunt him for the rest of the day and, most likely, the rest of the night.

Over the years, he'd finally been able to discipline his mind to place them in the 'Do Not Open' box of his consciousness. Not to worry . . . they'd always be there and, at night especially, they'd escape and rob him of any meaningful rest. Sometimes, all he had to do was close his eyes or let his mind wander. The lid never stayed on the box for long.

He knew Lisbon could sense when he'd start to come unstrung. He'd almost begun to count on it. She would insist that he take the prescribed pills that would render him unconscious and dreamless for hours at at time. She was the guardian of his grip on reality. She was good at it as she was good at so many other things. He admired and trusted her . . . well, as much as he trusted anyone.

He tried to avoid taking the drugs during an active case because it dulled his senses. After all, he didn't want to cheat the CBI out of their dime but, sometimes, it couldn't be helped. He could tell when the others knew he was circling the drain because they'd walk on eggs around him and offer to get him tea. He had to be really bad before they'd go that far. For him, tea preparation was an exacting science and they usually failed the task. He tried to be nice about it but, it sometimes came out as a little snappish so they avoided this gesture if they could. Even though it shamed him, he appreciated their solicitousness and kindness.

He put the thoughts into their box and cleared his mind as he strode briskly forward and bent down to begin his examination. The victim was a small, curly-haired, young woman whose dark eyes had already gone cloudy, tanned skin already gone grey.

Her gaze was now, sightlessly, fixed on the vast grid of sparkling lights below the dry Los Angeles hills. The view from the steps was spectacular but, with the speed and flash of a sharp blade, someone had ended her appreciation of it or anything else . . . ever again.

He noted the broken fingernails on her right hand and the scattered flecks of what was probably cigarette tobacco in the folds of her sleeve. They'd caught in the loose, gauzy weave of her clothing and hadn't yet been taken by the gusts that scoured the hillsides and their inhabitants. It blew dried leaves, twigs and man-made debris in swirls along the walkway.

"She's not unfamiliar with her killer", he stated aloud to no one in particular, trusting that Lisbon or one of the others on the team would be listening and possibly taking notes as he began his evaluation. He crouched down to get closer without quite touching his knees to the ground. Ignoring the scent that threatened to send him off into a place he didn't want to go, he sniffed her hands and clothing as he balanced carefully with his fingertips to avoid the evaporating puddle that surrounded most of her body. He'd only brought the one suit and blood is a bitch to remove without dry-cleaning. Unfortunately, they'd all had far too much experience with that issue.

"There's tobacco on her sleeve but, her hands and clothes don't smell like a smoker's. No nicotine stains on her fingers. My guess is that she possibly ripped her attacker's pocket open in the struggle while she was being killed and it spilled out whatever was in the bottom of it. It's probably how her fingernails came to be broken. Under the body or all of this blood, you may even find some loose cigarettes or perhaps part of the wrapper or box. Maybe even the torn pocket or something equally as exciting."

He added, "Good luck with that." and then mentally shuddered at the thought of scooping up the coagulated goo to look for evidence underneath. He didn't envy the techs who drew the short straw on that one. He looked closely around her body, saw nothing more that would be of any useful information, then abruptly stood and walked quickly down the steps to the bottom landing.

Ortega joined him as the consultant stood staring out at the lights scattered like confetti over the landscape below. The red glow of a distant brush fire on the mountainsides beyond gave a surreal feeling of menace. The wind whipped their clothes about them on the unprotected terrace as Ortega turned to address the blonde man.

"So, Mr. Jane, you think this is Red John?"

"It's not him."

"How do you know?"

"For one, there's obviously no smiley face; number two, there's no real mutilation. I don't think having one's throat cut counts but, I'm not really sure of the technicality."

"Maybe he's changed his M.O.?"

"No, not him. I think he considers the way he kills his . . . " Jane eyes became focused on something interior and ugly, "for lack of a better term, art."

Ortega cringed internally at the concept of something so evil as 'art'. He'd also been somewhat startled by the blonde man's change in demeanor. Jane's face had gone absolutely blank, eyes cold, empty and dark. The transformation was a startling change from the face he'd shown only minutes before when they were introduced.

_There is definitely more to this guy than he allows others to see,_ thought Ortega.

"Well", said Jane suddenly and a little too brightly, a smile back on his face as though an invisible switch had been flipped, "Done here, gotta go. Do you have anything further you want to ask?"

"Uh, no. Thank you." Said the detective, surprised by the sudden sunny smile and easy manner. He watched as the blonde man strode quickly and gracefully down the sloped walkway toward the parking lot. _Weird guy . . . smart, but weird._

Jane had to get away from the scent of her blood. He could, usually, tolerate it. After all, it wasn't like the smell was unknown in the kind of work required of him.

Lisbon took note of his retreat then shrugged and went back to her task of interviewing the straggle of bystanders gathered at the top of the steps near the main entrance. It was a motley collection of kids looking for a good time and a night away from parental authority, a couple of homeless people who made their beds in the park after everyone had gone for the day, drug dealers and their customers and . . . the merely curious. They'd question every one of them and would get nothing. They didn't really expect to.

The wind continued it heated way through the concrete canyons and river-beds scrawled with graffiti. It sighed in the eucalyptus and flowed into the gullies and ravines. Lisbon fought the urge to scratch at her exposed skin as it began to dry out and itch.

Something bad was coming, she could feel it.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC - of course


	2. Bad Hair Day

Blood Wind - Chapter 2

**Bet you thought I'd wandered off, never to be heard from again? No such luck. Here's the next installment. I'm posting this even though the plot isn't fully worked out. Apparently, I like living on the edge. Hope you like it. Let me know what you think; good or bad, I'm not suicidal this week.**

**Disclaimer: If they were mine and I made money from this, I'd be living in a Malibu mansion and look like a cross between Angelina Jolie and Jessica Rabbit. I know, I know, plastic surgery can only get one so far. It's not a magic wand, dammit.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Bad Hair Day

Lisbon had cut them loose for the afternoon. There was just nothing new to go on and they'd stayed up the rest of the night until early morning before, finally, checking in at the Ramada and falling into bed around four a.m. They'd have to be back on the job by eight a.m.

Forensics results weren't back yet. Jane's observation of the tobacco caught in Josephina's sleeve, (that was her name - Josephina Ortiz-Beaudreaux; a twenty year old law student and amateur astronomer), was the only supposed 'clue' they'd uncovered. At least her hobby explained her presence at the Observatory.

That was it. They'd hit a wall; the same wall L.A.'s finest had already hit . . . several times.

So, here they stood, trying to decide where to go for an early dinner as the oven-like wind gusted around the rented SUV.

Jane held forth on the innumerable places to dine in the great, sprawling, mess that was Los Angeles. "People, there are endless possibilities . . . Indian, Thai, Mexican, Italian, French, Greek, Chinese . . . whatever! All thrive and flourish in El pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de Los Angeles." The Spanish rolled off his tongue as though he'd been practicing for months.

_Jane? Bi-lingual?_ thought Lisbon

"Where?" asked VanPelt with a puzzled look.

"In short . . . and in English . . . The City of Angels." announced Jane theatrically as he gestured with a graceful wave toward the cluster of tall buildings that signified Downtown Los Angeles.

In the distance, the blocky spires seemed to undulate in the heat that radiated in waves off the tarry, softened asphalt beneath their feet. Columns of smoke rose in the distance as the wind fanned flames of the latest, only partially conquered, fire to scorch its way through the brush choked hillsides and canyons.

Jane had forgotten VanPelt was the only one of the team who'd had little exposure to the history of the state that issued her paycheck. The others were all natives or had lived here long enough to call themselves such. He'd make VanPelt's education his next project he thought happily.

Rigsby's blue eyes danced with thoughts of mountains of exotic delights waiting to be tasted. With Jane as their guide, the adventure would be worthwhile. _This was going to be good._

The goofy, local weatherman on the morning news had predicted at least three more days of the Santa Anas.

Lisbon was finding it hard to keep a straight face as she stood in the parking lot with her crew. Their consultant's normally semi-tamed hair was now in unholy riot as the wind had its way; it was of a fine texture that seemed particularly susceptible to the static electricity the Santa Anas could produce. He was starting to look like a dandelion in the bright sunlight of what remained of the day.

Only Cho's nearly military cut seemed to completely escape the wrath of the wind. Lisbon and VanPelt had opted for solidly anchored pony tails twisted into knots at the backs of their heads and laminated with gallons of hairspray. Rigsby's hair was short and crisp enough that it really didn't matter much what the wind speed was.

Jane stopped talking and stared at Lisbon's barely concealed mirth with a puzzled look that quickly turned into an embarrassed grin as his hands automatically went to his head to try in vain to tame the tangled mess.

"Bad hair day." he mumbled with a sheepish smile.

"Dude!" laughed Rigsby, "You need to invest in some industrial hair product or just friggin' buzz it off."

"White guys shouldn't do 'fro's." said Cho whose face didn't even hint that he wanted to crack a smile. "It's not really PC".

Jane smiled back good-naturedly, "It's why I can't live in L.A., had to move because the wind's too hard on the tresses. Can't live in Chicago either."

The team halfway believed him. His three-piece suits, artfully tousled locks and blinding smile were something to behold on his good days. The ensemble was catnip to most women and a few nameless men and the grudging envy of about half of the CBI's personnel. Of course, the other half wanted him dead . . . or at least unconscious.

On his bad days, his suit was rumpled as though he'd slept in it, though everyone knew that he hadn't slept. His hair looked as though it had never been near a comb and beard stubble completed the look.

It was a startling transformation when he was too depressed or distracted by a case to pay any mind to his appearance. Fortunately, his vanity usually kept him from going to the dark side of personal grooming. His behavior was another matter. This was when Lisbon would, eventually, corner him and stuff medication down his throat.

"OK, who votes for . . . never mind. . . . I'll choose. Trust me." with that, Jane smiled like the Cheshire cat and called shotgun.

The others climbed into the SUV, found their places and belted themselves in. Cho drove while Jane navigated. As in everything else, Cho was smooth, steady and determined. L.A.'s fabled freeways were beginning to choke and slow with early evening traffic. It was only a little after three-thirty in the afternoon but, rush hour was almost in full swing.

VanPelt had told them that, according to statistics she'd read, road-rage soared during the Santa Ana winds, (which didn't surprise anyone) but, most people did refrain from honking their horns if tempted . . . it really wasn't safe to do so.

"Get off a couple exits up, you'll see a big ice cream factory on the right before you need to get over for the offramp." Cho smoothly made the difficult transition in the heavy traffic when he spotted the twenty-foot high, fiberglass, ice cream cone on top of the building in the distance. They exited the freeway without any trouble and Jane said, "Turn right at the Dairy Queen, go two blocks and turn left at Tommy's Burgers. There'll be a Taco Bell on your right, three lights down and you can turn right. The restaurant's only a few doors down from there."

"Jane, you do know that people who give directions using fast food restaurants instead of street names may have issues.", grinned Lisbon.

"Works." said Cho. Jane had never directed them to a place with less than excellent food no matter his method of getting them there. Cho trusted him implicitly in the area of restaurant choices; in other areas, maybe not so much.

They were just pulling into the restaurant parking lot when Lisbon's cell rang. Rigsby groaned and watched her face apprehensively as she listened to the caller. She nodded occasionally as though the person on the other end could see her. The relaxed look left her face and her brow furrowed.

"Yeah, we can find it. OK, we're on our way." Lisbon turned to face them and said, "We're up."

"Jane." she said as they pulled back out onto the street, "Get us to the Hollywood Bowl and don't use your fast food restaurant crap for directions!" Lisbon was back in 'cop mode'.

He had a comeback on the tip of his tongue but decided that voicing it wouldn't help matters. She carried a gun.

He tucked it away for later and gave accurate and precise directions to get them to the Bowl. They exited the Holllywood Freeway at Highland Avenue and arrived within twenty minutes - good time for L.A. traffic.

Ortega met them in the parking lot and began filling them in as soon as they came within earshot. The wind blasted over them as they pushed through the turnstile and hurried down the walkway. It was a long walk but, even from the distance, they could see the dark stains that dripped down the front of the steps. They walked through the cheap seats, then the more expensive, then the pricey orchestra seats to get to the steps that led up to the band shell.

"Body was found by the clean-up crew picking up after last night's concert. It's a kid this time, pretty bad. Some of my guys are having a hard time with it." Ortega's brow was furrowed grimly as they approached the victim.

Lisbon glanced quickly at Jane. The consultant showed nothing on his face that could be taken as reluctance. They walked carefully up to the body of the child, a girl who appeared to be no more than seven or eight. She lay curled on her side. The wind blew wisps of her long dark blonde hair to float on the viscous surface of the puddle beneath her before they slowly sank into it. Her face was angelic, serene, and she looked to be merely asleep.

_Where were her parents? _Wondered Lisbon who swallowed hard before observing, _Who would think that someone that small could lose so much blood?_

She glanced to her left and saw Jane approach without expression. He immediately began his examination, silently and carefully scrutinizing the body and the area around it. He bent down for a closer look at the child's small, delicate hands and hesitantly started to reach toward them then stopped himself.

"She's holding something in her right hand." he said tonelessly, his face a blank as he stood up and took a step backward.

_The copper smell._

Ortega immediately came forward and bent down. His gloved hands carefully pried the girl's fingers open. There, in her small grasp, was something that looked like a green disk. He summoned the tech to photograph it in her hand before he plucked it from her cupped palm and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag. He looked at it closely.

"Looks like one of those things they sell in Chinatown. You know, jade . . . for luck." He shook his head sadly . . . _luck_.

He started to turn toward Cho, who said automatically, "Korean". Ortega looked slightly embarrassed and called out to one of the C.S.I.'s, "Gary, can you see if you can translate this?'

A chubby Asian guy in a dark knit shirt emblazoned L.A.P.D. CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATOR walked over and examined the medallion in the baggy that Ortega held up for him. "Yeah", he said, looking at the brass inlay symbol on the small green disc, "It says 'Luck'."

"Um, thanks." said Ortega, confirming to himself that God, the universe, the killer, whoever, has a perverse sense of humor. Gary scurried back to his work as they all looked up at each other without saying a word; silently acknowledging the irony.

_The copper smell._

"He's just fucking with us!" said Jane suddenly with surprising vehemence. Lisbon looked at him sharply, a knot forming in her stomach. He eyes blazed and his hands were curled into fists he shoved into his pockets.

"He destroyed this beautiful child because he wants to let us know he's in control. He wants us to know that he can make us feel helpless and frustrated and . . . and . . . " Jane never finished the sentence. He spun on his heel and walked quickly back up the sloping amphitheater walkway and out the exit toward the parking lot and kept going.

_The copper smell._

"Jane!" Lisbon called out to him and started to follow but after two steps she turned and walked back to Ortega and her team. No one else moved. The other members of the team showed nothing on their faces. It was as though they'd taken a lesson in stoicism from Cho. VanPelt was the first to break. Her eyes betrayed her, showing in them anxiety and sadness.

Lisbon looked at Ortega apologetically and started to say something but he held up his hand to stop her, saying, "I know, you don't have to explain. My ex-partner was one of the uniforms who took the call when Jane's family was found. I don't know how the guy even functions at a crime scene, let alone one that concerns a dead child. He's probably even right about the control thing."

"He usually is." said Rigsby in what seemed an unintentionally feeble attempt to defend their consultant.

"I feel for him, I truly do." said Ortega solemnly.

"Well, lets get on with it, he'll come back when he blows off some steam." said Lisbon with certainty even though she didn't feel it. _Jane was beginning to unravel_, she'd have to find him before something bad happened.

The team spent the next few hours gathering whatever information could be gleaned from the scene. It wasn't much. The girl had her throat slashed just like the others. There didn't appear to be any sexual assault but, that would have to be confirmed by the medical examiner. Other than the jade disc, there was nothing more.

Lisbon motioned for Cho to come over to her. He stepped to her side and leaned in as she whispered, "Go look for Jane, I don't know where he went. He should've been back by now and he didn't look good when he left."

"I saw", replied Cho nearly as softly, "I'll drive around to see if I can spot him. I don't think he's had any sleep for at least a couple of days that I know of. At about three this morning, Rigsby decided to check if there were any donuts left in the vending machine and found him in the lobby working on his Sudoku." Cho added, half to himself, "Rigsby must have a tapeworm or something."

"You should have told me about Jane!" said Lisbon more sharply than she intended. "I have something with me that could have helped him get some sleep." She caught herself and took a deep breath, "Never mind, just find him before he does something stupid."

"I know how he gets." said Cho quietly as he looked down at the concrete beneath them. He hesitated then raised his dark, expressionless eyes to look directly into hers and added gently, "Boss he's never going to be OK. You know that, right?"

Lisbon looked somewhat taken aback by her 2IC's comment. Though, he was legendary for his candor, it was unlike him to delve into anyone's personal life, especially his boss's. The man was like Fort Knox. Anything of a personal nature stayed locked in his vault and never saw the light of day.

Now it was her turn to look downward first before meeting his dark gaze. "I know that may be", she paused before continuing, "but, under all of the games and bullshit, he's a good man; even if he doesn't believe it himself. Maybe he'll never be really OK but, I . . . we . . . can't give up on him."

Cho only nodded in agreement.

Lisbon looked tired. She felt like shit, the headache wouldn't go away. _Must be the heat and that fucking wind!_ She waved her hand at Cho, motioning for him to get going.

Cho hurried off on his mission. Lisbon knew he was the best one to send. Besides being the master of keeping private information to himself, he and Jane seemed to have a sort of brothers-in-arms respect for each other. Jane didn't often try to con him and Cho gave Jane a lot more leeway than any of the others.

She couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom as waves of heated air gusted thru the amphitheater. Even on good days, Jane was a walking disaster waiting to happen. Throw in a case involving the death of a child, particularly a seven year old girl who resembled his own daughter, no sleep, Santa Anas . . . _now all they needed was a fucking full moon and a Friday the thirteenth._

...


	3. The City of Angels

Blood Wind - Chapter Three

**Though not informative plot-wise, this chapter was a good opportunity to thrash our hero. Some of the OC's are based on real people and are set in real places. It was not my intention to diss anyone's ethnicity. Los Angeles is a fascinating place to live with vibrant cultures to explore and enjoy. Please excuse my Spanglish (pidjin Spanish). Other than my native English, I'm not fluent in any other language except maybe 'cat'.**

**Reviews are oxygen in my sad little world. I'd love to hear what you think no matter how brief your comments.**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing and make no money from this strange pursuit. Only the mistakes are mine. **

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

The City of Angels

_The copper smell._

He had to leave. He had to get as far away as he could. He didn't know where he was going and didn't care.

His jacket was gone, his vest was gone. He was sweating profusely but, his shirt didn't hold onto the dampness as it dried in the heated currents that whispered and moaned around the buildings and rattled the fronds of the tall palms lining the boulevard.

He walked without purpose; without anything but the need to escape. He walked faster . . . then trotted . . . then ran - past closed office buildings and boutiques, past the neon facades of restaurants and liquor stores. He ran through unswept streets; debris curling around the bodies of the homeless as they settled into their heated concrete beds for the night.

He ran.

He couldn't make anything better. The child was dead. His child was dead. So many were dead and there would be more. He was useless; a fraud.

He'd died with Angela and Charlotte; his soul, if he'd ever had one, had gone with them; his body refused to follow . . . he just needed his body to follow.

He ran until his lungs and legs wouldn't let him and then . . . he walked . . . into the hot swirling night . . . the scent of copper following him.

...

Cho had driven around the area for hours before giving up and going back to the hotel. There was no sign of Jane.

Ortega had given the remaining three agents a lift back. No one spoke on the way. There was nothing to say. They had nothing to go on; no leads; no real evidence other than the jade disk whose copies could be found in every tourist shop in the city. A little girl and five others were dead and the CBI was of absolutely no value. It just sucked.

They sat at the small table in Lisbon's room trying to wind down. It was almost two a.m. but, they were all too keyed-up to sleep. Ortega knew the wind surely had something to do with it but, not everything. Defeat also has a way of disturbing one's rest.

They half-heartedly tried to discuss the case to justify the fact that they, the cops who were supposed to solve this, were sitting around in a hotel room in the middle of the night with not a single solid lead.

Ortega knew that the team, particularly Lisbon, was worried about their missing consultant. If the guy didn't show up in a couple more hours, he'd put out a BOLO. It could be dangerous to be on foot and alone in the middle of the night in some parts of this city. The tourist pamphlets rarely mentioned that.

If their consultant wanted to be gone, it was his right. People have a perfect right to disappear if they wish - providing they've not committed a crime as the motive for doing so.

He'd been told the guy was 'unorthodox' but, because Ortega's intuition had made him a damned good detective; he sensed there was something else. Beneath that sunny smile, Jane was a man at the end of his rope.

In the dispirited silence that had fallen over them, Lisbon's cell phone rang. They all jumped as if startled. She quickly stood and reached to pick it up from the nightstand between the two beds in the room and frowned as she looked at the incoming identification; it was Jane.

She exhaled with relief as she began to wind herself up to demand to know_ where the hell be'd been and why the hell he hadn't answered his phone or called._ With the phone to her ear, her expectant expression morphed into one of confusion. It wasn't Jane on the other end.

A woman was saying something in Spanish. All she knew to say was, "Un momento", and handed the phone to Ortega. She listened intently to one side of the conversation, understanding none if it until she heard the name, "Patrick". It sounded as though the detective was confirming Jane's name.

". . . tiene el pelo rubio, si." (. . . has blonde hair, yes.)

Lisbon, Rigsby and VanPelt gathered around him as he asked questions in rapid Spanish. Only Rigsby spoke a little Spanish and could actually understand some of what was being said. Cho remained seated on the edge of the bed. With the concentration of a diamond cutter, his gaze focused on the detective.

Smiling into the phone, Ortega finally said, "Gracias", ended the call and looked up at them as they stood waiting for the news.

"That was a woman who said she found a man wandering down her street. He looked like he could barely stand, like he may be hurt, sick or even drunk. She didn't think he should be out in the middle of the barrio, in the dark, so she took him to her house. He's a blonde man who told her his name is Patrick."

They all murmured in relief. It was, most certainly, their wayward consultant.

"Your Mr. Jane must be very special because, in that neighborhood, to let a stranger; especially a glow-in-the-dark white guy, into one's home in the middle of the night . . . well, he's pretty damned lucky." (_in some ways_, he almost added).

"Is he OK?" asked VanPelt voicing what they all needed to know.

"She didn't say anything other than he looked the worse for wear. Come on." he said standing up with a tired sigh, "Lets go fetch the little bastard."

Though the others protested, Lisbon told them to get some sleep while she and Ortega went to pick-up Jane. She prevailed with the reasoning that, '_at least someone' _should be fresh enough to function when daylight came. Besides, _"_I'm the boss!" she reminded them.

Rather than take the SUV, they took Ortega's standard issue sedan. It was after two a.m. but the night still danced and hummed with restless energy. Like large chunks of dirty snow, leaves and trash blew through the beam of their headlights.

As he expertly maneuvered the nondescript sedan through the nearly deserted streets, Ortega said suddenly and matter-of-factly, "You care about him." His dark eyes glanced at his passenger who seemed to blush even in the dim light of the passing street lamps.

"I care about all of my people." she replied, turning her head toward him as he drove.

"You know that's not what I mean." he smiled.

She started to deny it but, finally, let out a sigh and nodded . . . _busted_. She was too tired and stressed to quibble about it. She barely knew the detective but, he'd seen it. Who _else_ knew besides maybe Cho?

Ortega seemed a sympathetic sort, if a little too much like her consultant in his ability to discern things she'd rather not reveal and ask questions that made her uncomfortable. Besides, she probably wouldn't be seeing him again anyway . . . _May as well fess-up, no reason to deny it._

"You're right", she said softly, not even knowing why she was even speaking about this to a near stranger. "I care too much about him. It just sort of happened. If I was looking for someone, it certainly wouldn't be anyone as fucked up as Patrick Jane."

"As I said before, he's pretty damned lucky."

They were now in East Los Angeles. They drove through the hot restless darkness; they passed gas stations, taco shops, upholstery shops, bridal shops . . . Lisbon had never seen so many bridal shops in one place . . . and turned down a narrow street lined with parked cars. This was an old neighborhood. The wood-framed houses, mixed with a few stucco, were each surrounded by chain-link fencing and each enclosure seemed to be occupied by a barking dog.

They parked in the crumbling concrete driveway of one of the wooden structures as what seemed like hundreds of canine voices rose into the wind.

From what Lisbon could see in the glow of the buzzing street lamp, the house was neat but rundown. It had a broad front porch with potted succulents lining both the floor and the railing around it. She recognized several aloe vera among them. A wooden swing hung from rusty chains and creaked as it swayed in the stronger gusts.

They mounted the wooden steps and Ortega tapped forcefully on the peeling front door and loudly announced, "Policia!"

Lisbon waited beside him and could hear shuffling feet coming closer. The door opened just a crack and a wedge of yellow light spilled out onto them. They passed inspection and the door creaked open wider, a stooped little form silhouetted against the light from the room beyond.

"Buenos dias, (Good morning*)" it said and beckoned them in with a gesture. They entered into a small living room containing a sofa draped with a crochet afghan and mismatched armchairs covered with bright blankets.

She looked like one of those dried apple dolls sold at the fair - her face wrinkled and brown, eyes like black, shiny buttons. She smiled at them toothlessly.

Lisbon's heart thudded with apprehension as she followed Ortega and the apple doll across the living room and into the kitchen. She didn't know who she'd find, what he'd be . . . crazed or sane.

At a wooden table in the middle of the room, Patrick Jane sat staring into a cup that sat before him on its scarred surface. He didn't look up as they entered.

Lisbon approached him slowly, cautiously, and asked "Jane?" She received no response, then "Patrick?"

He continued to stare into the cup. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her with dull eyes. His vest was gone and he was covered in dirt. What seemed like hundreds of little blots of red dotted his torn, sweat-stained, shirt.

"Lisbon?" he said dazedly, then looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time until he saw Ortega staring at him with concern. He looked quickly down again into his cup.

"Jane, we were all worried about you." said Lisbon gently. "How did you get here? Why didn't you call?"

She waited patiently for his answer and after what seemed like minutes he stammered in a hoarse, soft voice, "I ahh . . . don't know. I walked, I, . . . I don't . . . " his voice trailed off into nothing.

"Mr. Jane, it's almost twenty miles from the Bowl. You've traveled quite a long way. You must be very tired." said Ortega, his tone gentle, his dark eyes concerned.

"Yes, tired, very tired, umm legs hurt." Jane mumbled without looking up.

Lisbon bent down to look under the edge of the table and saw the knees of his pants were torn and blood still oozed from the skin visible through the ragged holes. She stepped forward to take his hands in hers and turned them palms up. They were bleeding, he'd skinned them also.

She looked up at Ortega with a questioning look.

"There are a lot of brushy canyons in the area between here and the Bowl. He'd most certainly have to cross them if he traveled all the way on foot. It would explain some of his appearance. The thorns and Chaparral can be pretty brutal if you're not careful. Without light, he'd have to feel his way through it. It's a wonder he's not even more banged up. You wouldn't think they'd exist so close to us but, there are rattlesnakes, cactus, all sorts of things that wouldn't be nice to run into."

The yellow light from the single fixture in the kitchen ceiling gave everything a harsh, surreal cast. They could hear the trees and overgrown bushes tap against the kitchen window and the ship-lap siding of the house as though even the shrubbery wanted shelter from the wind.

The old woman set two steaming coffee cups on the table and gestured for them to sit. Ortega nodded, "Gracias", and pulled one of the wooden chairs out and sat down. Lisbon pulled her chair closer to Jane and perched uneasily on its edge. The clock hanging on the wall over the stove ticked loudly in the near quiet.

"Que, paso senora?", began Ortega after the apple doll returned with a sugar bowl, a single teaspoon and a small tumbler of milk. She poured her own cup from the battered pot that sat warming on the stove before she stiffly eased herself down as well.

Lisbon nodded her thanks and gratefully sipped her coffee black as the old woman began conversing with Ortega. Her animated voice was younger than her wizened appearance. She would occasionally gesture toward Jane who sat staring into his cup, his hands resting quietly in his lap.

As she spoke, the old woman looked at Jane with her black eyes, then toward Lisbon and smiled her toothless smile. Her face crinkled even more and the dark glittering dots nearly disappeared in folds of leathery skin.

Their conversation lasted nearly an hour with Ortega asking questions and the woman answering carefully. Through it all, Jane never once looked up and never said a word.

Lisbon listened, though she understood none of it, and studied her consultant carefully.

His face was sunburned and flushed; small, angry scratches marred the planes of it. Tangled with bits of dried leaves and grass; sweat had dried some of his hair into darkened ringlets.

She could see nothing seriously wrong but, his quietness was eerie. Unless on a plane or asleep, Jane was almost never quiet. She didn't know what else to do and reached out to once again take one of his hands in hers. He flinched and looked up at her uncertainly.

"It's OK" she murmured. "It'll be OK."

His eyes locked on hers and there was a feeling she couldn't identify but her chest tightened uncomfortably. She broke his gaze and looked down at their entwined hands. He had beautiful hands but, of course, why wouldn't he?

She knew, only too well, his attractive exterior was deceptive. Anything more than friendship with this damaged man was surely doomed. A panicky feeling began to overwhelm her here in the starkly lit kitchen. _What am I doing? What if he really is crazy?_

She heard Ortega thank the woman and then the sound of his chair scooting back on the linoleum floor. It broke her desperate reverie when he turned and said, "I've got the story. We can go now."

"Gracias, Gracias" said Lisbon, using up the remainder of her Spanish as she took Jane's hand and pulled him up from his chair and toward the front door. He put up no resistance.

The old woman stood and touched Lisbon lightly on the arm and then placed her hand on Jane's chest; gently preventing him from taking another step to leave. She stood in front of him and reached up to put a leathery hand on either side of his face. Black eyes intently looked into grey-green eyes; he looked back without blinking.

She murmured something softly to him and he replied in the same soft tone and in the same language. She patted his cheek and then reached over and patted Lisbon's the same way, smiling gently. She stood aside and waved them toward the front door. Lisbon blinked in surprise and then, tugging Jane along, followed Ortega out across the porch and down the steps to the car.

"Vaya con Dios", (Go with God), said the apple doll as she closed the door behind them.

The canine chorus sounded again as they got into the car and pulled away from the curb. Jane had taken the back seat and lay down across it with a tired sigh. He still hadn't spoken other than the few words to Lisbon and whatever he'd murmured to the old woman. His eyes closed and his breathing seemed to even and slow. She thought he may actually be asleep but with Jane, one could never be sure.

"The old woman is a bruja" said Ortega quietly as he pulled onto the northbound ramp of the 5 freeway.

"A what?" asked Lisbon.

"A witch, curandera, sort of a healer."

"Well that may explain a lot." said Lisbon only half-jokingly.

"She said she found him walking down the street when she went to see what all the dogs were barking at."

Ortega briefly digressed, "You notice everyone in this neighborhood has a dog; sort of a four-legged security device. She said he looked tired - lost - which he probably was, and that she was afraid something would happen to him.

Ortega smiled without mirth in the glow of the dashboard light. "If that old woman hadn't found him, it could have gotten dangerous. Even _I _won't go into that neighborhood alone at night without a gun. Your consultant could have gotten into some real trouble."

"I know, he needs to work a little on his sense of self-preservation." Lisbon said truthfully.

"Anyway, she got him to tell her his name and who to call. She said his Spanish is very good."

"Yeah, until earlier today, I didn't even have a clue he spoke anything other than English. He can surprise you in the oddest ways sometimes." She said the last sentence mostly to herself as her eyes threatened to tear up. She tried not to let Ortega see her turmoil but he reached over and pulled a couple of tissues from the visor over her head and handed them to her silently.

"I'm just so relieved." said Lisbon, totally embarrassed to show this weakness in front of a fellow cop.

"I know. As I said, he's a lucky bastard."

They both glanced quickly over their shoulders into the back seat to satisfy themselves that Jane was still asleep. He lay slightly curled on his side, his hands under his cheek like a sleeping child.

"The old woman," Ortega continued, "whose name is Polmocena, by-the-way, . . . I think it's an Indian name . . . also said that someday you will both be happy together. She said to take care of him because he is very special and he is not of 'la tierra', the earth. He is 'un angel de la ventana' an angel of the wind . . . whatever the hell that means."

"Jane an angel?" she said turning fully toward the detective, her eyes wide and her mouth unable to close. She started to laugh then and couldn't stop. _Jane, an angel!_ She put her hands over her mouth and almost exploded trying not to make any noise that would awaken the man draped across the back seat. Her eyes teared again and she looked at Ortega apologetically.

"She said he had a purpose here, a destiny; that he is very important to the city." He looked quizzically at her, "She also said to trust him, that he'd always save you."

Lisbon looked startled. That reference to him always saving her; Jane had actually made that very statement a few months ago when they'd been briefly trapped in a shipping container together.

_This is just waay too weird._

Must be the wind.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

*Technically, even though it's still dark out, the greeting is 'Good Morning' rather than 'Good Evening'. It depends on who you ask and what specific culture or country they come from. Took my best guess.

TBC: Verdad?


	4. Washed Away

Blood Wind

Chapter 4

**Hello lovely readers. Thank you again for your reviews, alerts and favorites. Here's the next one and it's even weirder than the last. Hope you like it and that you'll be kind enough to let me know if I've gotten too far out with this one. Let me know either way. I've taken my meds.**

**Disclaimer: Still don't own them or make any money from this. Most sane people would find something better to do with their time but, no one's ever accused me of sanity so I guess it works out somehow.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Washed Away

It was nearly dawn by the time they made it back to the Ramada. She thanked Ortega as she tugged Jane out of the back seat and made arrangements to meet up with the detective at Parker Center at nine a.m. Once again, there would be very little sleep. The sedan pulled away and Lisbon, with Jane in tow, entered through the revolving door to the lobby.

OK, she thought, _Santa Anas, no sleep, now - no Jane. It just gets better and better._

She thought out her plan as she led the ragged man across the lobby. Hoping it was just lack of sleep that had unhinged him, she was going to give him enough drugs to knock him on his ass for a week. There was no time to stop and figure it out. If she could keep him quiet and out of trouble for the meantime, they could deal with it when they got back to Sacramento. Though she couldn't help feeling some guilt, for now, it was the best she could do.

She led him toward the elevator; glad the lobby was nearly deserted at this early hour. The front desk clerk looked up with a question in his eyes. She just pointed to the badge on her belt and he nodded and looked back down at his paperwork. He knew from experience, anything that went on in a hotel after or before certain hours meant somebody was up to something they shouldn't be but, hey, this was police business - not his.

The elevator was mirrored and she was startled by the reflections she saw there. Jane's face looked hollow and haggard; hers not much better. It stopped at their floor and she pushed Jane out into the hallway and toward his door then realized that he may not have his key.

"Jane, give me your room key." she demanded

He looked at her blankly then slowly began to search through his pants pockets. Lisbon hoped he hadn't put the key into his vest pocket because said vest was long gone.

It took him what seemed like days before he finally pulled the plastic key-card from his hip pocket and handed it to her. She swiped the card and pushed the door open, shoving him ahead of her into the room and allowing the door to close automatically behind her.

She was debating how to clean him up before drugging him and throwing him into bed when she heard a soft tapping. Squinting thru the peephole that was set almost too high for her to peer through without standing on tiptoe, she saw Cho in the hallway. He was fully dressed and had probably been waiting for their return. Opening the door, she quietly let him in.

"What are you doing up?" she asked, (though she already knew the answer).

"How's Jane?" he asked as he walked into the room. With Cho, the shortest conversation or none at all was the norm.

"Not good. I don't know, weird . . . quiet." said Lisbon not bothering to hide the concern in her voice.

"Hmm", was all Cho said as he studied the battered man standing in the middle of the room looking as though he was in another world.

"Come on, help me get Jane cleaned up and then I'll give him something to knock him out. Hopefully, he'll wake-up feeling better." Lisbon said the last sentence without any real conviction.

She didn't know if sleep would help. He may need something more than what could be contained in a pill bottle. He'd just fallen off the sanity wagon with a big thud. Maybe he was beyond any help she could provide. Her stomach knotted again when that thought registered in her tired mind as she began unbuttoning his tattered shirt.

His hand moved weakly to stop her but, she pushed it away and continued to unbutton the destroyed shirt. Finally out of patience and deciding it couldn't be salvaged, she just yanked it open and whatever buttons were left popped off and pinged around the room.

"Cho, run the shower, we'll have to scrub him down. Until we get the dirt off, I don't know what we can patch up."

"He doesn't seem right, shouldn't we just take him to the hospital?"

Lisbon just gave him a pointed look and Cho quickly went into the bathroom and turned the handle to get the shower started. He adjusted the tap until it was hot enough and hesitantly went back to the room.

Cho was uneasy at the situation he found himself in. He had to get a guy naked and throw him in the shower with the help of his boss . . . his female boss. He was concerned about Jane, but this just wasn't what he'd signed up for.

"Jane! Get into the bathroom, finish getting undressed and get into the shower!" Lisbon ordered. He looked at her with some confusion but obediently walked into the bathroom and began to remove what was left of his ruined clothing; his movements slow and clumsy; very un-Jane like.

"He looks like he got into a fight with a bobcat." murmured Cho in surprise as he leaned, arms crossed, against the bathroom doorway. Interspersed with random bruises, Jane's body was covered in scratches and cuts - some still bleeding.

"Let me go get the first-aid kit. Be right back." announced the stoic agent as he strode toward the door to the hallway.

She stopped him and handed over her key. She asked him to bring her overnight bag from her room across the way. The door clicked behind him as he went off to find the needed items.

Lisbon strode impatiently into the large tiled bathroom as Jane was slow to remove the last of his clothing. Without hesitating she stepped in front of him and hooked her thumbs over the waistband of his boxers and slipped them down his hips.

"Lisbon, . . . I don't . . . " he stammered, the first words he'd spoken since getting into the car for the ride back.

_After stumbling around the worst areas of L.A. in the middle of the night; this was what seemed to register; his modesty?_ thought Lisbon shaking her head.

"It's OK" she soothed, "Just get into the shower. We have to get you cleaned up. We don't want any of these scrapes to get infected."

She handed him a bar of soap and then unwrapped another she found on the edge of the sink as he stepped under the hissing stream. Removing only her shoes, badge, gun and holster, she stepped into the large glass enclosure and began to lather him up as though she was washing a muddy dog.

The hot water opened up the cuts and washed out the dirt and granulating blood. Suds disappeared down the drain in a dark pink swirl. She heard tapping on the door and went to let Cho back into the room. Her soaked pants and t-shirt were clinging uncomfortably to her body.

Seeing his boss's irritated expression at his overlong absence, Cho explained; "Sorry, it took so long. The kit was buried under a bunch of other stuff. Mostly Rigsby's food stash."

He began to unpack gauze, tape, antiseptic and ointment from a red nylon bag. Lisbon didn't fully believe him. She thought her 2IC probably wanted to avoid bath-time with Jane. Men sometimes made no sense to her.

Their consultant emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam; a towel wrapped around his waist. He stood with water dripping from his plastered hair, seemingly waiting for his next instruction.

"Jane, get over here." she ordered as she crossed to the small fridge and took out a bottle of water then crossed back to one of the beds where Cho had set her overnight bag and took out two small prescription vials. She handed the bottle of water to Jane and shook out a capsule from each bottle into her hand. She looked appraisingly at the battered man in the towel and then shook out one more of each capsule and handed the four to him saying, "Take these, they'll make you feel better."

He looked at her numbly but, popped them into his mouth and took a swig of water then just stood holding the plastic bottle and looking from Lisbon to Cho.

_Jane doing as ordered without any smart alecky comments? Something was definitely wrong_, thought Cho.

Lisbon grabbed another clean towel and handed it to Jane telling him to dry his hair as the two agents began to dab at the many cuts and scrapes with the antiseptic. It must have hurt like hell but, he never flinched. Usually, a paper cut would cause enough drama to make a person want to stuff rags in his mouth but, he was completely silent as they doctored the cuts and abrasions; some of them fairly deep looking. Not even seeming to notice their ministrations, the blonde man awkwardly rubbed the water out of his hair.

Lisbon stood back to look at their handiwork. Jane's body was criss-crossed with scrapes and bandages. They'd used the entire economy sized tube of antibacterial ointment and what seemed like miles of tape and gauze. His hair was sticking up awkwardly after the towel drying and she stepped forward to smooth it down with her hands before it dried into something that would be hard to undo without a rake and super glue.

She had time to assess his body in general for the first time. He was surprisingly toned for someone who didn't _ever_ seem to exert himself unnecessarily. Though she thought he looked maybe a little too thin, he had a pleasing build.

The layers of his usual uniform; the three piece suit, made it hard to determine what his actual weight and condition could be. It dawned on Lisbon, Jane's way of dressing may not be just a fashion statement. Maybe even on a subconscious level it was like the camouflage of an animal that hid its vulnerability until it crawled away to die in a dark, hidden place.

That thought knifed into her heart. She continued her inspection until she was sure the last small abrasion was cleaned and coated in ointment.

As Cho watched her ministrations, he saw the look of sadness that crossed her face and silently shook his head. He hoped she knew she was in for a bumpy ride. He didn't see how it could work without her getting hurt at some point. He actually liked Jane and even admired him somewhat but, he knew, right now, the man was about as stable as bag of rats in a burning building. As strong and capable as his boss may be, she may not be up to the challenge that is Patrick Jane and heaven help him if her hurt her.

After making sure he was no longer needed, Cho went back to his room to catch a couple hours of sleep before they had to meet with Ortega.

Lisbon threw back the covers on the bed and pushed Jane down while grabbing the towel from around him and quickly throwing the sheet and blanket over. He didn't protest this time. The drugs were kicking in. He lay his head down on the pillow and his bones seemed to evaporate as his body settled into the softness. Lisbon had already turned the thermostat down to make sure it would be cool enough for the next several hours.

"I'm sorry." Lisbon thought she heard him murmur as he drifted off.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

He had only a few more days to find the rest. Andres fingered the heavy medallion that hung from the chain around his neck. He felt the raised design. His index finger glided over the smooth surface of the large red stone.

He'd chosen this stone because it was beautiful . . . like blood is beautiful. Achingly deep and pure of color; warm and liquid . . . it had power. It throbbed beneath the skin of all mammals. They were all one. All living things were one and all owe their lives to Tonatiuh. It was his sacred duty to keep the sun god happy. To appease him in all ways.

Some, no doubt, thought what he'd done was evil. Certainly it was illegal but, that wasn't of his concern. It pleased the sun god. The powerful diety would smile down on the earth and provide it warmth and fertility for generations to come.

That Tonatiuh had given him this divine duty was an honor. He couldn't fail. He had to keep the earth safe for them all. Even if they didn't understand as they lay before him with their blood flowing in a heated stream. From his place in the sky, the sun god would see it's ruby purity and beauty as it ran down the steps toward the thirsty earth.

It was his job to convince them they were the honored ones. Sometimes, they just didn't understand.

She jogged by; long bare legs flashing in the light of the dying sun. This was her second lap. He'd catch her on the third.

Tonatiuh would be pleased. Her heart would be pumping the red fluid at great speed and pressure. Of course, the others also had rapidly beating hearts when they were given the honor. He knew fright caused that. Adrenaline had flooded their veins in the moment they knew they'd been chosen.

The only disappointment, so far, had been the old one. His heart was barely beating. He wasn't frightened of death. Andres thought perhaps he knew his sacrifice was a gift to Tonatiuh and he was happy to give it. It _is_ quite an honor, after all.

He carefully caressed the edge of the blade as he took it from his pocket and rose from the bleachers to step down onto the track. This was the third lap.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC . . . (As if I could bail now.)


	5. Things We Know

Blood Wind

Chapter 5

**Here's another. No, you're not imagining it. It's getting weirder. Please, please let me know what you think of this. I'm not sure if it's a good idea to go in this direction. Maybe it will be my Halloween story. My apologies for the mis-numbering of the chapters. Haven't figured out how to fix it. This really is the fifth chapter.**

**Thank you so, so much for your reviews, alerts and favorites. They really make my day and week and possibly my year.**

**Disclaimer: _Starlight. Starbright. Wish I may, I wish . . . oh . . . you're just the 10:15 from Newark? Nevermind. _****Damn, thought I had it that time. Still don't own them or make any money.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Things We Know and Things We Don't

He awoke disoriented and groggy and tried for several minutes to connect once again to the physical world. He knew he was in bed because he was lying on something soft. He knew that blankets covered him because he was pleasantly warm. It slowly dawned on him that he was also naked.

_That's odd. _He usually slept at least in pajama bottoms of some sort. Years ago, he'd found out the hard way that one shouldn't sleep naked in earthquake country. He'd wound up meeting his neighbors, also in the buff, when they'd converged on their front lawns in the middle of the night after running out of the house in panic as the ground shook and things began crashing to the floor.

It slowly came to him that he was in his room at the Ramada. He turned his head to look toward the radio/alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing green display read six-oh-five.

_In the morning or evening?_ he dazedly wondered. His eyes were too bleary to see the little dot on the digital display that signified which it was. The dim, yellowish light that filtered through the gap in the heavy drapes was of no help; _could be either one. _

If it was PM, where was everyone and why was he in bed? If it was AM, it was time to get up and get dressed.

He began his usual, cat-like stretch but, as soon as he raised his arms, two things became apparent. One: he hurt all over. Two: his arms were a mess.

He stared at them in puzzlement, knowing only that they were covered with angry red scratches. He threw back the blankets and sat up. "Ow! What the fuck!" escaped his lips as he felt his muscles protesting the movement. He pulled the sheet away from his upper body and found it stuck to him in places where it had adhered to assorted scabs. There didn't seem to be an inch of skin that wasn't covered in cuts, welts and bruises.

Blood dotted the white fabric wherever it had lain against him. _Housekeeping is not going to be happy_, he thought with detachment.

His head swam and he sat still for a moment before attempting anything more athletic. After a minute, he pulled his legs from under the sheets and swung them over the edge of the bed. Both knees were covered with bloodied gauze bandages.

_What the hell have I done? What day is it? _He stood shakily and made his way to the bathroom. There were damp, blood-stained towels on the floor next to a dirty, shredded heap that used to be his clothing.

The call of nature was his first priority. As he stood over the john he saw the note taped on the wall at eye-level over it. '_Jane, if you can read this, you're back among the living. Call me! Lisbon'_

He got a brief flash of her concerned face as she handed him a bar of soap. _What the hell did I do? Why do I feel like I've spent the night being tumbled in a cement mixer?_

Suddenly, he remembered Cho being there. He moaned to himself and quickly hobbled out of the bathroom to search for his phone. He found it plugged into the charger on the nightstand. Several unanswered calls showed on the small display but he'd never heard it ring. He hit number one on speed dial trying to quell the panicky feeling that was beginning to make his skin tingle and sting as his nerves connected with the hundreds of little cuts that crisscrossed it.

Lisbon picked up almost immediately.

"Jane, are you O.K.?"

"Ahh, sort of?" he said carefully.

"How do you feel?"

"Like crap!" he blurted out as his voice rose in pitch. "What the hell happened? Why do I look like I've slept in a roll of barbed wire?"

"You don't remember anything?"

"Not much. Should I be apologizing for something?"

"No, you don't need to apologize. Don't worry. You're not in any trouble." _For once, _she almost added. "We'll talk about it when I get back. There are clothes for you in the closet. Get yourself something to eat. I left you a bottle of Tylenol and some more bandages and stuff. Just take care of yourself and I'll see you in a couple of hours. Are you sure you're OK?" her voice sounded concerned, almost tender.

"I'm relatively fine, but very, very confused."

"I don't doubt it. Rest for now. We'll get it all sorted out. Don't worry." she reassured him once again.

"'Mm'kay", he said trying not to sound too freaked. "See you later."

He felt queasy. He was pretty sure that Lisbon had given him the sleeping pills and the other ones that were supposed to keep him from dreaming. He didn't know if the slight nausea was because he hadn't eaten anything or if it was a drug hangover. Perhaps it was the fact that he was missing several hours for which he could not account.

She'd made him give the sleeping pills to her some time ago. He'd only relinquished them upon the threat that she'd just go ahead and call a doctor if he couldn't sleep and it was making him 'difficult' to deal with. He knew she either didn't trust him to take the pills or didn't trust that he wouldn't take too many, (knowing he'd already tried that in the past).

In a rare moment, he'd revealed to her a little of his sojourn in the hospital. He had needed her help on a case that involved his former shrink, it seemed telling her was a good idea at the time. He didn't suspect his revelation would come back to bite him on the ass.

He found a new pair of chinos and a knit polo shirt in the closet. _Not what I'd normally wear but, beggars . . ._

It was obvious he'd managed to trash the only suit he'd brought with him. He'd planned on going out to the house in Malibu to get more clothing but, that hadn't worked out as he thought it would. He retrieved his dirt encrusted shoes from under the bathroom counter and used one of the damp, stained towels to clean them off. _Housekeeping was going to be pissed._

He found a stack of fresh towels next to his toiletry kit. He shaved carefully, trying to avoid the scratches along his jawline. He gingerly pulled off the bandages that were applied here and there and got into the shower, yelping when the hot water stung as it washed over his abraded skin. He adjusted the tap to barely lukewarm and carefully lathered soap over his body and gently rinsed it off under the tepid stream. Afterward, he dried off by patting lightly instead of rubbing. Flecks of blood once again dotted the towel but, it was nothing in comparison to the look of the towels still on the floor.

Once he made use of some fresh ointment and gauze, he dressed quickly, noting the knit shirt was a pleasing aqua color but, though the tag on the chinos indicated the correct size, they fit a little too loosely. He found his belt in what was left of his suit pants. Feeding it through the loops in the new trousers, he buckled it and found that he had to tighten it past the worn hole in the leather strap. _Well, losing a couple of pounds wasn't the worst that could happen._

Feeling anxious and unsettled; he had to get out of the room and find out what had happened during those missing hours. He was too spooked by his lack of memory of how he'd gotten so thrashed.

He remembered the drive to the Hollywood Bowl. After that, it was pretty much like some sort of haphazard video feed with lots of gaps between scenes. He remembered walking and walking then . . . _thousands of barking dogs and an apple doll?_

_I have to keep it together or I'll wind up in the hospital again. _The black-out frightened him and a panic attack wasn't going to be helpful. He concentrated on slowing his breathing and heart rate. It was a skill that had come in very handy several times in the past. He waited until the feeling began to subside before picking up his phone in still slightly shaking hands. He dialed Rigsby's number hoping the big man wasn't standing next to Lisbon or Cho when he answered.

"Jane?" said a male voice.

"Hey, Rigsby." said Jane brightly, "How's it going? The investigation I mean."

There was a slight hesitation, "Nothing much new . . . hey, I thought Lisbon said you'd be out sick for the day? Said no one got to sleep until four a.m."

"Meh, I'm feeling better. Just had to clear my head, you know." said Jane with more cheer than he felt and hoping that Lisbon hadn't shared that he was probably whacked out of his mind last night. "What are we looking at today?"

Rigsby wasn't sure he should be sharing any information but Jane sounded fine. Lisbon didn't say anything other than it would be best for their consultant to sit this one out and get some rest. Jane _was_ looking a little ragged lately and Cho, as usual, wasn't giving up anything on the matter.

"Uh, we're back at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in case the locals missed anything but, I doubt it. They seem like they're pretty good at this."

"Yeah, well, we're better Rigsby. Say hi to Lisbon for me. Tell her I'll see her later." With that Jane rang off, grabbed his wallet and room key and hurried downstairs. He stopped off at the gift shop on the way and bought the least offensive wind breaker that fit him. The heat didn't bother him all that much; he needed to cover the marks on his arms. He could have worn one of his usual long sleeved shirts he'd brought with him but in his rush to get out he didn't think of it until he saw his reflection in the elevator. He could have gone back to get one but, once he was out of the room, he had no intention of going back until he reunited with his team.

He couldn't do anything about the scratches across the bridge of his nose but, they could be explained away easily enough. He thought about stopping to get something to eat but, it could wait. Besides, his earlier queasiness hadn't entirely disappeared. He had to get to his team at the earlier murder scene.

He waived to a waiting taxi as he stepped onto the boiling concrete on the other side of the heavy glass door. In ten minutes they were at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. He noted the big SUV parked at the red painted curb. On its dash was displayed an official looking police department placard. The wind blowing across the open space of the plaza whipped around him as he paid the cabbie and turned to face the huge theater and the smaller buildings around it.

He found them quickly enough. His legs ached but, he bounded lightly up the steps in case anyone was looking. Lisbon nearly did a double take when she glanced over her shoulder as he walked up to the small group.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed - not very softly. Cho's expression was blank as it always was and Rigsby looked distinctly uncomfortable. VanPelt looked from Jane to Lisbon and back again to Jane with an anxious expression.

"Oh, I was feeling much better and decided to get back to work. There's only so much daytime TV one can stomach. Those hair-pulling wrestling matches are staged anyway."

"Jane, go back to the hotel and wait for us." said Lisbon with more than a little vexation.

"Nope, I think I can do more good here." He hesitated briefly considering if 'more good' was grammatically correct in this instance.

"I don't think you have anything to add and we can handle the rest without you. Get your ass back to the hotel!"

Now the three agents and Ortega, who'd walked up to them as soon as he'd seen Jane's arrival, looked from the senior agent and back to the consultant like an audience at a ping pong tournament.

"Actually, my dear Lisbon, I do have something that might be of value to this investigation."

Ortega immediately took a step forward and raised his eyebrows questioningly. He hadn't expected the consultant to show up today or probably not again while the CBI was working the case but, the 'little bastard' was still hanging in there. Maybe he had something.

"Have you noticed a pattern of any sort?" asked Jane as he looked at the group who were listening with rapt attention.

"All the victims were killed in the same manner, throats slit, no other marks; defensive or otherwise." chimed Rigsby

"Excellent Wayne. What else?"

"Well, all the victims were Hispanic." said VanPelt thoughtfully, "even the ones who didn't look it."

"Good Grace. What else?"

"Every victim was found at the top of a set of steps." said Ortega opting into the game.

"A gold star for you, Detective Ortega. What else?"

"The jade disc doesn't seem to fit." said Cho

"No, it probably doesn't, just a coincidence or possibly a red-herring. Very good deduction Agent Cho."

"The first victim was the oldest and then it progressed to youngest."

Jane looked at Lisbon with a blinding smile. He waited just the right number of beats for the drama of it all and then said, "You almost have it, Lisbon."

"Have what?" they actually chorused together.

"If I'm not mistaken, the next one will be a baby." said Jane solemnly.

...

From the hillside above the stadium, Andres saw the knot of uniformed people gathered around the chosen one whose life had been given to Tonatiuh. The Los Angeles Coliseum had been the perfect place to bring her. The steep steps would be stained. It was nearly like the steps of the pyramid that had run red with the sacrifice of so many.

The sun burned down on his bare skin. The gold medallion glinted in the light as he made his way back up to the road where his car waited. He'd buried the bloody clothing he'd been wearing. He had the foresight to carry fresh attire in the car; practice had shown it necessary.

It was unfortunate about the girl he'd originally chosen. Yesterday, he'd read in the newspaper she had been pregnant. He thought she was a nice, pure girl who fit perfectly his need for someone to honor the sun god. When he'd seen her on campus, he'd been fooled by her angelic look and her sweet nature.

He was a warrior - a jaguar warrior. This judgment of purity was more difficult than it seemed. His job was prevailing in battle and conquering those who weren't worthy of the people of the sun. He wasn't used to this part of it. He was only supposed to supply prisoners from which the priests would make the choice.

It wasn't normally his duty to ascertain who exactly was worthy to honor the sun god with the gift of their blood. He hoped Tonatiuh would not be upset at his error in judgment but, there wasn't much choice for the deity. The priests were long gone. There is no one else now. He's the only one left to see that it's properly done. His blade would have to be the one to let the ruby river flow.

When he had accomplished what was asked of him, he would join Tonatiuh in the sky. His body would blaze with light and would be flesh and blood no longer. His being would disperse to the four winds as any worthy warrior's.

He would be immortal, at least until the end of the fifth world but, for now, the earth would be safe. He cannot fail or it will all end now. The people of the sun would be no more.

There was only one more; the purest of the pure. It shouldn't be difficult but he didn't kill just to feel the power; the indescribable feel of the warm liquid as it spilled over the hand that held the blade.

He actually wished he could have avoided killing the child's parents. They just couldn't see that their daughter would be such a beautiful gift to Tonatiuh. They didn't recognize what an honor it was to be chosen; that her sacrifice would help ensure the safety of the earth and its creatures.

The life of a warrior wasn't an easy one. He had given up his own wife and children to become a soldier of the sun god. He still missed them but, knew his work would keep them safe.

The wind blew over his bare skin like a warm caress. It spoke to him. He could hear the uneasiness in its whispery voice. _There was another . . . _

It told him to guard against one who was not of the people of the sun or, if he'd heard the wind correctly, not even of the earth.

It made no sense to him but, he listened. Its heated breath held a warning.

Something bad was coming. He could feel it.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC

Pleeeeaaaassse review if you'd be so kind.


	6. The Starry Night

Chapter 6

**Finally! Here's a longer chapter to help make up for the slower than molasses update. I won't give any excuses this time but it did have something to do with moving the computer and relocating the cable. Please be aware that I am not, nor have I ever been adept at such things.**

**Thank you for the reviews and favorites on the last chapter. If I haven't replied to you yet, I apologize. It was fun to write but it tried to kill me! Must remind myself to not actually plot something out ahead of time. It only gets me into trouble. Please, please review! Good or bad; let me know what you think.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be, so depressing. Hmm, chocolate or strawberry this time? Where's my spoon? Nevermind, who needs a spoon.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

The Starry Night

Exhaustion had, finally, claimed him but true, rejuvenating rest wasn't to be had. He tossed and whimpered in sleep. His legs moved restlessly to become tangled in bed covers.

Tired muscles burned and bones ached as they never had before. He'd walked for miles before he found himself standing in the middle of a narrow street; dogs, thousands of them it seemed, were barking and baying from every direction in deafening cacophony.

Even over the agitated canines, he could hear the wind whispering to him _. . . Go with her . . ._

Surely, a hallucination of some kind? Why would the wind speak to him? About whom was it whispering? Maybe he was back in the hospital? Auditory hallucinations were familiar there. That must be it, he was back in the damned hospital.

Tears pooled in his eyes as he looked upward. Instead of a white ceiling, he saw blue-black sky. There were stars tumbling and swirling; leaving sparkling trails of light across the darkness. The yellow, crescent moon hung low and swaying cypress trees were visible over the rooftops. Was he in that painting?

Dream or hallucination, this was a new one.

As he stared at the lights pinwheeling through the darkness, he felt himself falling; then, there was a hand on his arm and it steadied him.

A voice said, "Mijo, ven conmigo" as he was gently pulled toward the steps of a wood-frame house.

He wasn't sure if it was safe to go with her but, he was so tired. He needed to sit and rest; besides . . . the wind had told him to go with her . . . hadn't it?

Now, he was in a kitchen that smelled of fried things and coffee. The wind whistled around the old house making the windows rattle against their warped, weathered frames. It was what happened in old houses where the glazing had long ago dried and loosened.

There was an old woman in a long dark skirt. She resembled one of those dolls sold at the fairs he sometimes worked when he was a kid. The kind of figure where the face is made from a dried apple. Her eyes were black, deep and bottomless. She gave him coffee and stroked his head as he sat at a wooden table.

In a soft voice, she told him of Tonatiuh. She spoke of temples and sacrifice; of fear and blood. She told him he had a very important task.

Then she said, 'Cuidado Angel. El Jaguar espeda. (Be careful, Angel. The jaguar waits.)

What was waiting?

...

He awoke with a start. In his ears still echoed a scream like that of a mountain lion. It was still dark. The bedside clock read four a.m. The only sound in the room was the hum of the air conditioner.

That clinging, creepy feeling of half remembered nightmares made him shudder. Even though it was cold enough in the room to make a polar bear shiver, he was soaked in sweat. He flung off the covers.

Barefoot and clad only in pajama bottoms, Jane hurried out his door and across the hallway to Lisbon's room. He tapped softly on her door and waited. When there was no response, he tapped more forcefully. He knew she was exhausted but this was important. It had to be done now.

After several more taps and another minute, the door opened and a disheveled Teresa Lisbon peered at him with an unhappy expression, her eyes puffy from sleep.

"Jane! What!" she said with exasperation. He'd better not be waking her just because he couldn't sleep. Last time he'd done that she'd threatened to shoot him. _Dammit! I knew I should have talked him into the sleeping meds again!_

"Lisbon, I'm sorry. Can I use your laptop?"

"You woke me because you want to play online poker or surf for porn?"

"Of course not. It's only in lieu of a twenty-four-hour library. Even in L.A., they don't have those. Besides, online poker gets boring so quickly and as for the other," he smirked, "not tonight; I have a headache."

Lisbon had already turned away from the door and disappeared into the room. Returning with her laptop and mumbling something about sleeping pills, poker and pornography, she practically threw it out the door at him.

"Go back to sleep, Princess." said Jane as the door was slammed in his face.

Realizing, too late, he'd let the door to his room shut behind him and he was locked out, he thought about knocking on Lisbon's door again or just picking the lock but decided he valued his life more than _she_ probably did right now.

Taking the laptop to the end of the hallway where there was a bench in front of a large window that overlooked the parking lot, he sat down on the floor and using the bench as a desk, began his research.

...

He felt someone standing over him and looked up to see Rigsby staring down from his great height.

"Jane?"

"Oh, Wayne. Why are you up? What time is it?"

"A little after six, I couldn't wait. We're not supposed to meet Ortega's team for breakfast until eight . . . and you?"

It wasn't unusual to find the consultant up at odd hours engaged in some quiet pursuit but, he was usually dressed when he went on his nocturnal rambles. Rigsby didn't even bother to ask.

The man with the dark shadows under his glazed, reddened eyes looked up with a sheepish grin.

"Couldn't get back into my room and didn't want to wake anyone - specifically Lisbon. I'd already woken her to borrow her laptop. She didn't seem too happy about it."

"You know she has a gun, right?"

"Yes, of course. She's threatened me with it on several occasions. I decided not to push my luck this time."

"Good decision." nodded Rigsby, a serious expression on his open face

Sunlight was beginning to make itself known through the large window and the battery light on the computer had begun to blink a couple of minutes ago. He shut the cover and stood and stretched.

"I could use some tea." he said, "Mind if I join you?'

"Uh, yeah great but, shouldn't you get dressed first?"

Jane looked down at himself and seemed startled to discover his state of undress.

"You're probably right. I'm sure there've been worse things wandering around in a hotel in the early hours but, being half naked in the coffee shop isn't really kosher, even in L.A.

"I don't think we locked the interconnecting doors between the rooms when we traded chocolate last night. You can probably get into your room from mine. Don't wake Cho, he's pretty cranky in the mornings."

"Who'd have guessed." said Jane as Rigsby handed over his key card. Rigsby was a good hearted soul, even if he was a barbarian. _Who in the world would be foolish enough to trade M&M's for a wonderfully silky dark chocolate Dove bar?"_

"Meet you down there in a few minutes." smiled Jane

The tall agent watched Jane pad down the hallway. He looked pretty banged up. Rigsby still hadn't gotten Cho to spill what had happened night-before-last and it was really bugging him. He doubted it but, maybe, he could get Jane to shed some light on it at breakfast.

...

Jane and Rigsby were just finishing their early morning meal. The consultant had decided to put the coffee shop through his usual test for culinary competency. He'd ordered eggs and toast and they'd been acceptable, not remarkable, mind you, but not bad. He'd give this one a passing grade.

Jane had ditched the short sleeved shirt for one of his usual long-sleeved cotton dress shirts with the cuffs rolled up over his forearms. He may as well give up the pretense about the scratches there. Without his usual vest, he felt naked.

Rigsby had been a little shocked to see their consultant dressed in anything other than his usual attire. It wasn't as shocking as it could have been. Their undercover assignment that time in the gay club had Jane dressed in tight Levi's and a body hugging knit shirt. He'd been a sight to behold. No one had ever seen him without a three piece suit in some shade of grey.

The simple chinos and long sleeved shirt, even if he wore that ugly wind breaker over it, somehow, made him seem more human; some of the mystique was gone.

Rigsby would never admit it aloud but, the man intimated him. He was so blindingly brilliant and yet so incredibly annoying with his manipulations and games that it was sometimes all he could do not to clock him or just freakin' choke the little bastard.

He'd lost count of the times Jane had made merry at his expense just to see him blush. Yet, there were the times when the consultant's generosity and caring, (though not necessarily overt), could be really touching.

_The guy's a squirrel but, he's their squirrel_.

Jane seemed more like his old self and was regaling the tall man with stories of Los Angeles and its denizens when Rigsby's cell rang.

Flipping it open, Jane could hear him say, "Yeah, down in the coffee shop. He's here with me. OK, see you out front."

He snapped it shut and signaled the waitress to bring the check.

Signing it with name and room number and showing his key for verification, Jane left a nice cash tip and they left to meet the others out front.

Rigsby was glad he'd woken early enough to grab breakfast. That was Lisbon on the phone: another body had been found . . . they were up.

...

Jane, once again, gave concise directions and they arrived at the Los Angeles Coliseum within half an hour.

Cho drove. Neither he, Lisbon nor VanPelt looked entirely awake yet. Lisbon had only time for a quick gulp of the bitter instant coffee from the small electric pot in her room before rushing out the door with VanPelt in tow. By banging on her door in the middle of the night, Jane had interrupted what little sleep she'd been able to get. She sorely missed her usual morning boost of caffeine.

She looked over at her consultant as he stared out the window. The scratches on his face were healing. He looked a lot better than he had yesterday. She could tell he was hurting though trying not to show it. They'd worked together too long. He'd be disturbed to know how good she'd gotten at reading him; nearly as good as he was at reading her.

...

The Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum was located in the middle of a battered and crime ridden part of town. The pseudo Roman edifice was an island of impressive architecture in the middle of urban decay.

They entered one of the gates and, as a group, strode across the grassy expanse of the athletic field toward the peristyle where Ortega's team was already assembled. The dark stains trailing down the steps were visible even from a distance. In the morning light, it was still fresh enough to appear bright red; not yet beginning to oxidize to that dark rusty hue.

This one was dressed in running shorts and shoes. She wore a tank top with a USC logo on it and lay gracefully sprawled, her dark hair loose around her. This time, the slope of the concrete beneath her hadn't allowed the young woman to lie in a pool of red as had the others. Her blood had flowed as a crimson waterfall down the steps in a scene worthy of any number of slasher flicks.

Jane bent down to begin his examination while Ortega and Lisbon spoke with the uniformed officer who'd arrived first at the scene.

The victim's dark eyes were open and looked more sad than surprised. She'd been lovely. Now, she was a crime scene.

As had the others, her throat had been slashed. Again, at first glance, there was nothing left behind to point toward the perpetrator. Jane crouched to look closer. There, partially under her left wrist, he saw a tiny speck of blue. He knelt to peer at it closer.

He nearly jumped to his feet to yell "Lisbon!" and pointed toward the girl as his petite boss hurried to stand next to him, her eyes searching for the cause of his excitement.

She saw nothing at first until he pointed out the miniscule dot on the concrete.

"What is it?" she asked, her dark brows drawing together in concentration as she focused on the tiny object.

"It looks like we may have an actual clue. You might want to get one of your evidence baggies." said Jane, his face creased with a broad smile.

The forensics team had just arrived. Both Gary Chen, their interpreter from the day of their arrival and the fierce little woman, Mary Tollson, who'd given Jane the evil eye at the last crime scene were here.

Ortega had come over to see what the commotion was about and called out to his techs to join them. They'd been at their jobs a long time had quite the reputation for their thoroughness and expertise.

Gary and Mary got to work immediately.

"There's something slightly under her wrist." said Lisbon, "Could you get it for us?"

Mary quickly photographed it in place before Gary took a large pair of tweezers and moving the dead woman's arm slightly aside, picked up the blue dot and deposited it into a plastic evidence bag.

He handed it to Lisbon who held it up for Jane and Ortega to see.

It was a tiny blue bead. It didn't appear to be one of the usual glass or plastic beads found on nearly every 'Indian' artifact manufactured in China. This bead had the uneven surface and coloring of a piece of blue stone.

"Ah", said Jane, "Looks like maybe lapis lazuli?"

"What the hell is lapis . . . whatever you said?" asked Lisbon in annoyance.

"It's a blue stone the Aztecs used in quite a few of their decorative and ceremonial objects." answered Ortega before Jane could begin to explain the origin of the blue stone, if not the origin of stone itself.

Lisbon was grateful for the detective's brief answer. Jane could get a little pedantic at times and without her morning coffee, she didn't have the patience for it.

The two teams gathered around the body. This would have to suffice for their morning meeting. Breakfast, if there was time for it, would be conducted in the manner of a drive-bye at one of the fast food chains that infested the city and its suburbs.

"Let's go over what we know so far." said the consultant sounding like an instructor addressing a remedial math class.

"The first murder; a seventy year old retired landscaper . . . "

"Yeah, Israel De la Cruz" said Ortega, waiting for Jane to continue.

"OK, Mr. De la Cruz represented the past. He was a sacrifice to history. His blood would ensure that the deeds and accomplishments of the formerly living wouldn't disappear with their deaths."

"The fifty-year old . . . ", Jane paused for a name from Ortega.

"Maria Sandoval"

"She represented the wisdom of age and the transition to history. Her sacrifice would ensure people do not forget that growing old isn't necessarily a bad thing. That elders are repositories of needed information the people require to successfully survive."

"Yeah, that's why the seventy year old was offed?" smirked Rigsby

Ignoring Rigsby, Jane continued, "The thirty year old . . . " once again he paused for Ortega.

"James Arce."

"He represented productivity; prime of life. His sacrifice would ensure that crops would continue to be planted and harvested successfully; that the hunt for game would be successful as well."

"The first twenty-year-old, a woman named Josephina Ortiz-Beaudreaux, represented the dawn of productivity; the coming of age."

"The coroner's report stated she was three months pregnant. When the killer learned she wasn't the 'pure', (his fingers making air quote marks around the word), specimen he thought she was, it required a 'do-over'."

"Unfortunately for the second twenty-year-old, Sarah Cisneros, this particular part of the ritual specifies certain physical attributes for a person of this age, female, attractive, fertile but, chaste . . . a virgin."

"A twenty-year-old virgin? Good luck with that." murmured Lisbon just loud enough for the group to hear. Only Rigsby snickered slightly.

"So young to be so cynical, Agent Lisbon." tskd Jane "and sexist, I might add."

"So what about the child?" asked VanPelt, the redhead's tense vocal cords and dry throat making the question come out in nearly a squeak.

"She represented possibility; promise." Jane's face was calm and impassive, it didn't reveal any feeling toward the child who was very like his own slain daughter in age and appearance and whose death had triggered his flight into the darkness of a Los Angeles night. Ortega admired his strength. Lisbon was made sad by its necessity.

"The next one; the baby," Jane continued "of course, represents the future. This sacrifice will ensure that all will be right with the fifth world . . . of course until it ends in volcanic cataclysm." he shrugged.

"We can't just tell the public to hide their kids. That would create even more panic." said VanPelt as the significance of the revelation sank in.

"Actually, they'd only have to hide their male children . . . almost biblical, isn't it?" said Jane with a small smirk toward the religiously devout agent. "It's one of the two sacrifices that gets specific about gender."

"We're already seeing the result of the public's reaction in the stats coming from the gun shops. They've almost sold out of ammo. Permit requests for gun purchases are back-logged a mile high." sighed Ortega.

"Ah, America . . . Be the first on your block to be the last on your block." Jane looked pointedly at his boss.

Lisbon only glared back at him. She knew his views on such things. He'd already called her the poster child of the NRA. Now was the time to keep those views to himself . . . considering that everyone in this group carried at least one firearm except, of course, Jane himself.

His thoughts directed inwardly as he spoke; his fingers moving in their characteristic manner as he prioritized those thoughts, the consultant continued, "It has to be a newborn, only a day old at most. We have to watch the hospitals, nurseries specifically, or anywhere else one could find a baby that fits the criteria."

"Other than being a newly born boy, what other criteria is there?" asked Cho

"The baby has to be Aztec or at least partly so." answered Jane

Ortega spoke up, "Almost anyone of Mexican heritage is mestizo, meaning a mixture of European and Indian blood; could be Aztec or any of several different tribes that inhabited the area at that time. There's no real way to know which tribe specifically. There could be a lot of babies that would fit the bill."

"Where's the highest concentration of a likely source?" asked Lisbon

The compact detective's brow creased and his lips pursed for a moment before he answered carefully. "Where you were the other night, East Los Angeles. There are lots of old-timers there, meaning people whose families have been here for generations but, there is also a great influx of immigrants from Mexico and Central America concentrated there. That's where you'd most likely find people of possible Aztec origin."

"If he holds to his pattern, we have another day." said Cho

"I really don't think he'll strike until tomorrow." said Jane. "The day of this last sacrifice has to be exact for it to be acceptable. If he doesn't get it right, he has to start over again."

The entire group looked at him in near horror. Starting again would be unthinkable.

Jane stared back at them calmly as though he'd announced the sun would be coming up in the morning. He'd done his part and figured it out, now it was time for the actual cops to do their thing.

_He seems to have gotten a grip. This is the focused consultant we need._ thought Lisbon

Ortega had his own thoughts about the consultant. _Maybe the old woman is right. If this guy can help catch the killer and prevent another murder, specifically the murder of a baby . . . maybe he is an angel._

"Where did you get this information, Mr. Jane? asked Jack Lowry, one of Ortega's men.

"It's a legend someone told me about. It has to do with Tonatiuh, the Aztec god that provides warmth and fertility; the sun god of the fifth world, the one we're in now."

Everyone but Ortega shifted uneasily with the realization that, maybe, this time, their consultant had finally gone 'around the bend' once and for all.

Several sets of eyebrows hoisted upward. Only Ortega and Cho seemed unaffected by this strange revelation.

"Was it the old woman, Polmocena, who told you this?" asked Ortega

"She told me some fascinating things, this was one of them. I just couldn't put it together until this morning."

...

Killing Sarah had taken a lot out of him. He had also really liked Isabel, the child who was so bright, so full of promise. He was getting tired . . . and sloppy.

He'd been happy when he found that young woman at the observatory but, she'd been a fighter. He wasn't used to them putting up such a struggle. They never suspected him to be the bringer of their doom. They didn't even have time to look surprised when he drew the blade across their throats.

The girl at the observatory had ripped his pocket in the struggle. He'd found it dangling, literally by a thread, when he'd arrived home. It was one of his favorite jackets but, of course he'd have to get rid of it anyway . . . it was stained. He chastised himself for pining for the jacket. It was no longer for him to become attached to things or people. He had a duty to carry out. Tonatiuh was counting on him.

Pulling his blue compact into the lot of the hospital, he found a shady space under one of the ragged pepper trees at the far end and cut the engine. He rolled down the window to feel the hot breath that blew across the open expanse of asphalt.

He reached into his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes. It was almost his last pack. He'd lost the one a couple of nights ago when his pocket had been ripped. He knew it was a nasty habit, this addiction to tobacco. It had also gotten to be an expensive habit. The cost of a pack was well over six dollars now, usually more. At least some of the money he spent on his addiction went to the tribes.

He'd recently begun to buy a brand called 'Native'. It supposedly had fewer additives but it was sometimes hard to find. He'd actually driven out to one of the reservations to buy his last carton. He supposed it just took this brand a little longer to kill you.

Sighing, he flicked the match into life and drew the harsh smoke into his lungs.

He waited.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC


	7. The Housewives of Toluca Lake

Blood Wind - Chapter 7

**Still hacking away at the plot monster. Here's the next installment. Thank you to those who posted reviews and listed this in their favorites. Rainbows and kittens to you for your kindness.**

**Please let me know what you think of this update. I feel like Cho did about bath-time with Jane, this isn't what I signed up for! It's work! (Just let me whine, I'll wind down eventually.)**

**Disclaimer: Just checked them out of the CBS library. I'll have them back by the time they're due. Haven't made any money from this or anything else lately.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

The Housewives of Toluca Lake

Ortega's cell rang. The wind blowing through the open area made phone communication almost impossible unless shouting. He walked a little way from the group to the protection of a thick plaster column. He had to put his hand over his other ear to keep out the roar of the wind.

His brow creased as he listened and his lips formed a grim line. He finished the conversation, snapped his phone shut and hurried back to rejoin the two teams. The group still seemed shaken by Jane's revelation of the next probable victim and the improbable reason as to why.

"We have two more, possibly the parents of the child." announced the mustachioed man.

"Where?" asked Jane

"Toluca Lake area."

"Nice area."

"Not nice enough." said Ortega

"Meh, it's just collateral damage." Jane said dismissively

_He could be such a cold bastard at times _thought Lisbon. It was a facet of the man that she couldn't reconcile; that still startled her when he displayed it. She supposed it was the only way to cope with some of the disturbing things he'd seen on nearly a daily basis for the last few months. This distancing of emotion was basic to survival.

"Collateral damage?" asked Ortega who didn't appear to be fazed by the consultant's observation.

"He probably had to kill them because they wouldn't relinquish their daughter. What parent would?" he shrugged

Lisbon looked more closely at her consultant, searching for a crack; some sign that he might, once again, slip over the edge. She saw no such indication. He was cool and calm.

He'd so recently fallen apart and now, he acted as though it had never happened. The only visible evidence of his misadventure was the small healing scratches at his jawline and the across the bridge of his nose.

Jane, out of the corner of his eye, saw her studying him. He recognized her look of evaluation and its meaning. He knew she was already aware of his panic and confusion about the missing hours. He'd just have to suck it up. He couldn't afford to get that worked up; no matter what presented itself.

"We have to get out to the house to see if we can confirm her identity without waiting for forensic results. Looks like we're running out of time." said the mustachioed detective.

"Maybe the killer slipped this time and left something to go on . . . we can hope." said VanPelt; ever the optimist but, not really believing the words as they left her mouth.

They hurried across the plaza to where the SUV waited.

"I'll ride with Ortega." volunteered Jane as the others scrambled into the large vehicle.

The stalwart detective was a little startled but beckoned the consultant toward the beige sedan parked behind the SUV.

The LAPD's team had their own transportation and the small convoy headed toward the freeway.

Jane remained silent for much of the ride. He seemed to be mulling something over as he stared out the window at the confusing tangle of intersecting highways.

"So, Mr. Jane . . . " began Ortega

"Patrick, please. After rescuing me from the bowels of hell, I certainly think you've earned the right to call me by my first name."

"So . . . Patrick, you're feeling better?"

"Yes, quite a bit. Thank you for asking." replied Jane politely as he felt a bit of a flush creep into his skin. He was beginning to remember more of his adventure. _Dammit! _he thought as he felt his skin heat up in spite of the frigid setting of the hard working air conditioner. It wasn't like him to give any outward sign of his feelings. The blush was an indication he wasn't quite himself yet.

"You know you don't have to be embarrassed." said the detective who'd not missed the blonde man's change in hue. "We all get stressed. We all need to get away sometimes. Most of us just don't usually do it in such . . . " he searched for the right word; not accusatory, not judgmental, . . . "in such _dramatic_ fashion." he finished in a rush.

"Ah, well, yes, I've been accused of some drama before" smiled Jane, "but, I'm sure you wanted to use a different set of adverbs . . . say, 'self-destructive', right?"

Without waiting for an answer, he added in a quieter tone, "Thanks for your help last night, or at least I think it was last night . . . not quite sure yet."

"De nada, (It's nothing)", Ortega smiled as he steered them smoothly along the concrete ribbon toward the suburb.

...

They arrived at the upscale neighborhood and parked in front of a gabled, picket-fenced home worthy of a 50's sitcom. Lisbon's team and the others pulled up behind them.

Exiting the frigid interior of the car to step into what seemed like the basement of hell, the temperature almost took the blonde man's breath away. He could feel the tingle of capillaries in his skin expanding to adjust to the heat.

Ortega lifted the yellow crime scene tape to cut across the lush lawn and up the steps to the already opened front door; the others following in his wake.

It was a busy scene; technicians were dusting for prints and vacuuming for evidence while others took photos and snooped into drawers and under furniture.

The interior was as plush as the lawn. It had, no doubt, been recently remodeled. The scent of paint nearly obscured the metallic smell of blood.

They walked through the open plan of the great-room toward the back of the house to the kitchen area. On the floor beyond a granite topped island lay two bodies. Their throats had been slit and the arterial spray was painted on the walls, appliances and cabinets with a copious amount of crimson liquid puddled beneath their slack forms.

Ortega swore under his breath, not at the specter of death but the unnecessary amount of blood. _Doesn't anyone just shoot fucking shoot people any more?_

Jane said nothing; taking in the details with his intense focus; the gore not seeming to bother him in the slightest.

He walked to a built-in shelf on the other side of the kitchen and picked up a photo displayed in an art-glass frame. It was of the child he'd seen lying dead at the Hollywood Bowl. Her parents were smiling on either side of her. The man, handsome and dark-haired; the woman white-blonde, nearly albino in appearance, and delicately beautiful.

"Hey!" said one of the techs who'd seen Jane pick up the photo.

Jane immediately put it down and raised his hands in apologetic surrender and stepped to the side of Detective Ortega who was speaking with one of his team. There didn't seem to be anything of interest; at least not yet, according to the young, ruddy complexioned, Detective Lowry who was nearly as tall as Rigsby.

Leaving the two LAPD investigators to converse, Jane wandered off to other parts of the house but, not without a warning glare from the woman with the CSI emblazoned shirt and razor wire demeanor who'd caught him touching the photo. He just smiled at her and continued about his business. He could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked away. The smile had been worth a try but it didn't seem to have an effect on this one. _He must be slipping._

On the wall of the paneled study, he found other photos. In the middle of an artfully arranged collection was an eight-by-ten of several people dressed in shorts and t-shirts and standing arms around each other smiling at the camera. It looked to have been taken at a dig-site somewhere. From the foliage in the background, it appeared to be a jungle.

He looked closer. There were the two current victims holding up a small figurine of what seemed to be Aztec or possibly Mayan origin. The picture had to have been taken in Mexico or Guatemala.

Someone else looked familiar. In the files Lisbon brought with her, he remembered the image of a previous victim; the one whose body was found on the steps at the Dorothy Chandler. Her face, even the one shown drained of blood in the crime scene photo was the same one that had broadly grinned at the camera.

He took the frame off the wall, deftly unfastened the back and slipped out the thick paper. He quickly folded it to fit into the pocket of the wind breaker he hadn't yet ditched in the heat.

Looking over his shoulder while doing so, he placed the empty frame in a drawer of the the massive wooden desk and turned back to the wall to slightly rearrange the frames so there wasn't such an obvious bare space in the grouping. Getting caught by the little tech wasn't something he wanted to deal with right now. She looked mean.

He continued looking through the room. On the walnut shelves of the bookcases were accounts of various tribes of Mesoamerica. There was a small statue of what appeared to be one of the Aztec gods, (_maybe Quetzalquatl?)_, if he remembered the online information correctly. There also were miscellaneous books, artwork and objects that fit the theme.

There didn't seem to be anything else that may pertain to the murders. He went quickly up the carpeted stairway to poke around in the other rooms.

One of the bedrooms was, obviously, the child's. White furniture, a canopy bed and girly decor attested to the fact.

The kid, or her parents, had liked the color lavender . . . a lot. It was on the walls and bed linens and was incorporated in everything else in the room; including the dolls and stuffed animals that sat atop the bed and on the custom built display shelves that encircled the room.

For the moment, he had successfully closed off whatever it was inside him that made any connection to the small victim or her possessions. He _could_ do it but, it required a certain amount of energy. After the hectic months they'd just had, it was much more difficult than it had been.

He couldn't afford to feel that unfathomable sadness right now. He couldn't afford to feel anything. It was important to the case he didn't. It was important to his sanity he didn't. He knew they could see him struggling. He was glad he had Lisbon and the team. They were the anchor that would keep him from slipping away in this wind that had tortured them all for days.

After this, he'd have to see about getting a few days off. He'd actually been a good boy and not given anyone undue trouble . . . well, not much anyway. Lisbon wouldn't object. Hell, she'd probably insist on it after his misadventure the other night. He knew he'd freaked everyone out. He'd certainly freaked himself out.

He came back to the moment when he spotted a heart-shaped frame on the bed stand. It contained the image of the couple who looked so reassuringly loving and strong; who would protect their child with their last breaths. It was probably the last thing she looked at before she fell asleep.

"Jane!" he heard Lisbon call from downstairs. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there. He turned without looking back and trotted down the stairs; still cognizant he didn't want anyone to see how much wear and tear his body and psyche had taken during his adventure into the wilds of L.A.

He knew Lisbon was probably going to tear him a new one when she got the chance. That was one of the reasons he felt it was a good idea to ride with Ortega. He knew he was being cowardly but, he just didn't feel he could endure it right now. He was just so fucking tired.

"You find anything?" asked his boss as he reached the first floor landing.

"Well, other than confirming the child was the daughter of the people who lived and died here . . . no, nothing else. I'm working on it though." Lisbon looked at him suspiciously but said nothing further.

They'd learned this was the home of the Villareal family: James, Rebecca and their daughter Isabel.

At least, thought Ortega, they didn't have to notify the parents of a dead child.

That was always one of the toughest tasks. It just delayed it though. Now, they had to notify the parents of the parents. It just increased the grief exponentially . . . like the proverbial stone being dropped into a pool of water with the ripples expanding ever outward. The detective sighed at the task ahead. He was getting tired of this shit.

The CSI's were still doing their thing. Ortega's people and hers had split into teams and spread out to question the neighbors. Jane, as usual, went with Lisbon. They took the opposite side of the street from the crime scene. The homes here were set many yards apart with elaborate landscaping, walls and other trappings of the upper-middle classes.

Walking along the street to the first house, Lisbon paused and put her hand on his arm to get him to face her. He winced inwardly . . . here it comes.

"Jane, are you really OK?" Her clear green eyes searched his.

"Of course . . . well, as OK as I'm ever going to be." he said with a small smile.

"You scared the shit out of us."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Well, we don't have the time now but, you and I are going to have a talk." she said with a warning tone in her voice.

"Yes, mother." he smirked

"I'm not kidding."

"I know."

At the first place they hit, the housekeeper who answered the door said she'd seen the couple coming and going but knew nothing other than they appeared happy enough and the little girl and her mother were both very pretty. Her employers were still out of town and except for the current glut of police vehicles in front of the house, she'd seen nothing of any note. They thanked her and went on their way. Lisbon had left her card in case she remembered anything that might be of help.

At the second house, one with a stone paved circular driveway and faux Tuscan exterior, no one answered. Lisbon left her card stuck in the door with a note on it to contact her at the number listed. So far so good if they were just looking for a stroll in the outdoors.

They rang the doorbell of the third house, (or McMansion to use the derisive term), it was new and quite imposing. One side of the massive, mahogany and leaded glass doors was opened by a striking woman. Obviously someone who took good care of herself; she wore calf-length exercise pants and a tank top. A snowy white towel draped around her neck and blonde hair was plaited into a French braid.

"May I help you?" she smiled at them with movie star teeth, seeming slightly out of breath, a slight sheen of perspiration on her flushed, taut skin. Her turquoise eyes roved over Lisbon quickly then settled on Jane, seeming to evaluate him as though he was a horse she was thinking of adding to her stable.

"Ma'am, we're from the CBI, and we need to ask a few questions." said Lisbon in her most 'senior-agent-in-charge' voice as she displayed her shield. Jane could tell she was already somewhat irked.

_Perhaps it's the Santa Anas_, he thought. It was still early but it was already in the nineties and wisps of Lisbon's hair had already escaped the tidy bun at the back of her neck. She was beginning to look a little wilted.

Lisbon introduced herself and her consultant by name waiting for the woman to identify herself as well.

After what seemed entirely too long a pause, the woman answered, "I'm Mrs. Raban', my husband is Doctor Richard Raban'." as though they should recognize the name.

"May I ask your first name, Mrs. Raban'?" said Lisbon, not quite keeping the annoyance out of her voice.

"Oh, it's Sydney Ann." she said turning her turquoise eyes on Jane, "You can call me Siddy." she smiled. "Goodness, I heard all those police cars go by but, I was working out with Tony and didn't want to stop while I was in the zone, you know. I hope nothing's happened."

"Tony?" asked Lisbon, raising her brows and ignoring the woman's supposed concern.

"Anthony Santoro, he's my personal trainer. He comes over three times a week. Really works the hell out of my glutes but, it's worth it. Don't you think?" she asked in an annoyingly chirpy voice as she turned so_ they _could admire her impressively toned ass.

"Is Mr. Santoro here right now?"

"Oh, no, he left about an hour ago. I can give you his phone number if you like."

"Yes, please. We need to speak with anyone who may have information that would be of help in the investigation."

She gave the number to Lisbon off the top of her head without having to look it up. She either had a very good memory or she and her trainer spoke to each other over the phone on a regular basis.

"What are you investigating?" she asked

"Murder." said Jane, before Lisbon could prevent him.

"Oh" said the blonde woman, her eyes widening as she brought a beautifully manicured hand to her mouth.

"Siddy, what do you know about the people across the street? The house where all of the police activity is." asked Jane with the smile he used on waitresses and receptionists. He knew the effect it had.

She still seemed stunned by the information Jane had revealed.

"Siddy?" prompted Jane

"Well, not a lot, I'm afraid." she finally answered "We really don't socialize with them but they seem like a nice enough couple." she said, looking at them as if asking if she should change the tense of the word 'seem'.

"Their daughter is very sweet. She's come over a couple of times asking to play with Ashleigh and, unfortunately, I've had to tell her no."

"Is Ashleigh your daughter?" asked Lisbon, becoming even more annoyed with this silly woman though trying not to show it in her tone.

"Yes, she's nine and quite the equestrienne. I had her when I was quite young." she added, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and looking once again at the consultant rather than the woman asking the question.

"May I ask why the answer was no?" asked Jane, not bothering to smile this time.

"Well . . . " Siddy hesitated, recovered enough to once again display her porcelain smile. "My daughter has such a full schedule with ballet, riding class, things like that."

"I see." said Jane; his eyes fixed on her with the sometimes unsettling gaze he used in interrogations. It didn't seem to have any effect on Mrs. Doctor Richard Raban'.

"Can you tell us anything else about your neighbors? Anything appearing out of the norm for this neighborhood?" asked Lisbon

"No, nothing that I can think of. I'd see them packing up their car to go on trips every once in awhile. It looked like camping gear. They'd be gone for quite a few days at a time . . . not that I'd really keep track of them or anything."

"No, of course not." said Lisbon "Thank you for your time Mrs. Raban'." said Lisbon curtly, "If we have any further questions, we'll contact you."

"Bye Siddy." smiled Jane; realizing that he couldn't burn any bridges yet. They may need to come back.

The blonde woman gave him a coy grin and looked up through her dyed lashes in what she probably considered a seductive way before closing the heavy door.

The two turned and walked past the ornate, burbling fountain in the middle of the small courtyard and back out to the sidewalk.

Lisbon, once again, rolled her eyes at Jane.

"What?" he asked with his most innocent expression.

"Oh, please." she snorted "That woman would've had you for lunch if you'd even twitched in her direction."

"You'll notice I didn't twitch." he said mildly, "Nary a tremor." He was rather enjoying Lisbon's reaction to the predatory Mrs. Raban'.

Huffed the CBI's shortest and probably toughest agent, "She's one of those women you'd see on a reality show; bored and with way too much time and money . . . and plastic surgery; plastic being the operative word."

"I don't think they've yet created a reality show called 'The Housewives of Toluca Lake'." said Jane in a mock soothing manner.

"I'm sure it's coming" snipped Lisbon "and your little friend 'Siddy' is perfect for it."

"Now, now, Agent Lisbon, jealousy doesn't become you."

"Jealousy! In your dreams, Jane!"

"Ah yes, and what dreams they are." he said with a suggestive raise of an eyebrow.

Her answer was to punch him on the shoulder; rather harder than was necessary he thought.

"Ouch!" he yelped "No need for violence."

"In your opinion."

The rest of the morning was spent canvassing the neighborhood. No one had heard anything unusual. No one had seen anything unusual. All was as it should have been in the sunny suburb of Toluca Lake, except, of course for the two dead people lying on their kitchen floor.

The only thing they'd accomplished with their questioning was to create more alarm in the inhabitants of The City of Angels.

...

Andres was getting worried. He'd been sitting here all morning and hadn't yet found what he'd come for. He hadn't yet seen 'the one'.

Even in the shade of the trees, it had gotten unbearably hot in the car. The searing wind didn't really cool anything. It only made his eyes feel gritty and he squeezed them shut and blinked a few times to see if he could relieve the dryness.

The back of his shirt was stuck to the seat with sweat. He picked up the bottle of water, uncapping it to take a long drink and then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before screwing the cap back on and setting the plastic bottle back beside him.

He lit another cigarette; one of many as evidenced by the ashtray that had long ago been filled to overflowing; it's contents littering the console and floor of the little compact. There was no longer any need to maintain his vehicle as he'd so scrupulously done in the past.

It didn't matter anymore. He couldn't care about anything that might distract him from his duty but, try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking of Aricele. Her smooth brown skin and dark doe eyes. Her sweet smile and pleasing voice.

She loved him he knew but, she left and took the children with her. She was one of the few things he'd regretted leaving behind. There was no room for family in his new life. There was only purpose. He almost resented it when the sun god had told him such but, he was a jaguar warrior. He shouldn't even be thinking of such things.

The smoke curled upward and he blinked rapidly. It was the smoke that made his eyes water. It was the smoke that tightened his throat. He sighed and stubbed out the cigarette; the stub falling to the floor with the others.

He waited.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC - If it doesn't kill me first. Please let me know what you think.


	8. Should I Be Worried?

Blood Wind - Chapter 8

**Thank you, thank you for your reviews as well as the alerts and favorites. When feeling that I'll never find my way out of this story . . . (EVER!), I read them. They give me strength to continue battle with the plot monster. Here is a slightly shorter chapter to keep the fire lit so you don't think the story has been abandoned. Yes, I know my updates are painfully slow. A friend once told me 'You don't do _anything_ fast'. I'm going to have it engraved on my headstone; everyone will certainly understand.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own and make no money. Writing this just for fun, (if you define 'fun' as a panic attack).**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Should I Be Worried?

Their breakfast meeting had finally materialized into a lunch meeting as they gathered at a coffee shop down the street from Parker Center.

They were used to cops and cop talk here. The young but hard looking waitress efficiently took their orders and brought them all coffee, except of course, Jane who'd ordered his usual tea. She looked a little put-out by the few extra movements required to serve someone a cup of tea. If she had her way, they'd only have coffee available and only one kind of soda. It would make her life so much simpler.

"So, anybody?" asked Ortega looking at his team who were familiar with their leader's verbal shorthand.

"Nothing, nada." said Lowry

"At least your Spanish is improving." smiled Ortega at his young detective as he stirred sugar into the cup in front of him.

"I had a chance to get a little information." volunteered VanPelt "The Villareals both worked at one of the local colleges." The most junior of the CBI personnel used any spare moment to research online. She was dogged in her search; it was her nature to be so. She'd been able to pull up some of the very ordinary life of the unfortunate couple.

"Is there any connection between the college and any of the other victims?" asked Jane, though he probably knew the answer.

"The first victim, the retired gardener, had worked there for quite a few years. I'm still checking to see if there's a link to the others."

"Good work, Agent VanPelt." said Ortega with a nod. She smiled almost shyly at the detective and her cheeks gained a little more color.

Ortega was glad his coloring was too dark to easily register the heightened color of a blush. _These poor guys are sunk if they try to fake not being embarrassed_, he thought as he recalled his earlier conversation with Jane.

He tried not to stare at the the small dark-haired woman seated across from him. He knew her affections were for another but, there was no harm in appreciating the beauty of the female form. Jane would be a fool to let her wait for too long. He would have liked to check out the tall redhead, VanPelt, but, he knew she was far too young for him. It made him feel like someone's creepy uncle to even entertain the thought. That tall guy, Rigsby, would probably kick his ass anyway. He was just glad he didn't easily blush.

They discussed the case as they ate their meal; both teams offering as much as they knew to date. There probably wouldn't be another chance to eat until much, much later. Now was their chance.

As the meal/meeting came to an end, Ortega stood and stretched then went off a little way to make a phone call. When he returned, he announced "Looks like we're taking a field trip to Cal-State-L.A." and, with a wave of his hand, bade Lisbon and Jane to accompany him.

...

Cal State L.A. was a 'commuter' college. It's students were, for the most part, not the children of privilege. Most of them had part-time jobs to work their way through school. Its curriculum tended toward the more pragmatic. It was well-known for its police science studies.

Like the city itself, the college was spread over a large semi-hilly area in what seemed random fashion. As they walked quickly across campus the wind in irresolute direction, whipped across the open area; its chaos as unsettling as its strength and heat.

They found their way to their destination after having to stop only once or twice to ask directions. A sterile looking building, neither new nor particularly old; just solid looking and utilitarian in appearance loomed in front of them on the other side of the plaza. Due to seismic safety standards at the time of its construction, it was a relatively low-rise structure. The dean's office was located on the fourth floor of the five story building.

Dr. Sangupta was expecting them. Ortega had called before leaving the coffee shop to tell him the police were going to be paying the school a visit.

The young woman at the desk outside the dean's door smiled as they entered. Huge blue eyes peered at them from behind fashionable tortoiseshell frames. Small, pale and almost anorectically thin, she had a wan yet pixie-like appearance. Jane thought she kind of looked like Tinkerbell after a stint in re-hab.

Ortega announced their identity, tilting the badge on his hip toward her as confirmation. They were immediately ushered into the dean's office which was a spacious but rather stark room. The man behind the desk rose to shake their hands; giving them a dazzlingly white smile as he did.

The three nodded in return and took their seats in the upholstered chairs arrayed in a semi circle in front of a large wooden desk whose style could best be described as 'Soviet Industrial'. Functionality seemed to be its only asset.

"Doctor Sangupta" Lisbon began, "Thank you for seeing us. I'm senior-agent-in-charge Teresa Lisbon of the C.B.I, this is our consultant Patrick Jane and detective-in-charge Ben Ortega of the L.A.P.D.

"I'm not in charge of anything." Jane quickly interjected.

Sangupta's smile grew broader. _Good, at least this stuffed shirt may have a sense of humor_, observed the consultant-in-charge of nothing whatsoever.

Dr. Aashman Sangupta had nearly walnut colored skin and black string straight hair that shone with the iridescence of a raven's wing. Amber colored eyes crinkled at the corners.

"With what may I assist you?" he inquired in a precise cadence.

"We're hoping you can provide us with information that would help with an ongoing investigation. Just routine." said Lisbon

"If this was just routine, Agent Lisbon, would the California Bureau of Investigation be involved? Does this have anything to do with the recent series of murders here in Los Angeles? I believe the news readers have dubbed this murderer the 'Southland Slasher'."

They were a little surprised by Sangupta's 'let's get down to business' attitude. At least they wouldn't be wasting any time here. The man was direct but seemed willing to cooperate.

"Yes, actually. We've just identified a family who have a connection to this college. Do you know a James and Rebecca Villareal?"

Sangupta looked startled at the names. A look of dread quickly replaced the smile.

"Oh dear." he muttered looking from one to the others with a stricken expression.

"Doctor Sangupta?" prompted Lisbon

"You used the word 'identified'. Does that mean what I think it may?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. They were found dead earlier today at their home."

"The, uhh . . . their daughter, Isabel?" he stammered

"She was identified as a victim as well." answered Lisbon without giving any of the details.

The doctor sat wordlessly for a long minute; staring at his blotter. He took a deep breath and centered himself. His face assumed an expression that could best be described as 'purposeful'.

"What do you need? Just tell me, I'll do whatever is in my power to assist you."

"We appreciate that. I understand Mr. and Mrs. Villareal held positions here?" asked woman from the CBI.

"Yes, Rebecca was a professor of linguistics and James an associate professor of archaeology. They met here. They are . . . were." he corrected sadly, "very highly thought of within the academic community and were very much liked by the students here. Such a tragedy . . . such a tragedy . . . " he trailed off.

"Doctor Sangupta, did they have any connection to Aztec or Mayan studies?" asked Jane as he reached into the pocket of his wind breaker. Lisbon knew his reason for wearing the ugly jacket but still marveled he could keep it on in this heat.

"Yes. Rebecca is ... _was_" he corrected again, "currently studying the origins of Uto-Aztecan language and James was looking into artifacts of Mesoamerican cultures."

Jane unfolded a large rectangle of what looked to be from the underside of it, white card-stock and handed it to Sangupta. "Do you recognize any of these people?" he asked

With annoyance, Lisbon glanced toward her consultant. He hadn't said anything about the photo he'd probably stolen from the Villareal residence. This was another another issue she'd be addressing in their upcoming conversation.

"The doctor studied it with a sad face before saying, "Yes, of course, there's James and Rebecca holding the figurine. The older woman with the curly hair who's beside them is also familiar but, I don't know her name and, of course, Doctor Apizaco is the man on the far right. This was probably taken on one of the digs in central Mexico. They'd been taking quite a few trips down there. Not the safest thing to do, considering the atmosphere in Mexico right now with the drug wars and such." He added softly, "It's ironic they would come to such a tragic end in their own country."

"Death doesn't seem to have geographic preferences." said Jane, "Here, Mexico, Omaha; it's just a crapshoot."

Sangupta looked at him with raised eyebrows. "That's such a fatalistic outlook Mr. Jane."

"Meh, I have my reasons." said Jane calmly, "Tell me about Doctor Apizaco."

"He's a very nice, very gentle man who's had a rough time of it lately, I'm afraid."

"How so?" asked Ortega, leaning forward in his chair.

"Well, his personal life has been rather tumultuous of late but, I'm afraid I can't elaborate further. He is a very private man. Any information I have is only hearsay. His professional life is, as always, one of intense and rewarding study in his field. He is considered one of the foremost experts on the Aztec, Toltec and Mayan cultures, among others."

Has his behavior and/or his mode of dress changed in the last few months?" asked Jane, his grey-green eyes intense with the need to know.

"Yes, very much so I'm afraid. He seems to have 'gone native' for lack of a better term. Except for the brief time when he was just back from his service overseas, he's worn his hair rather long but he's now also taken to wearing Aztec themed clothing; you know, woven textiles and gold jewelry. I expect to find him in a loincloth by next week."

"Have you any information as to what caused this change?" asked Lisbon

"Well, I don't think he's been quite the same since he returned from Afghanistan about two years ago. He was in the reserves and spent nearly a year there. I understand it was quite rough. When he returned he was . . . quieter, possibly more intense. I know he and Aricele, his wife, have separated. I believe she's living in Whittier now with her parents. She took their children with her. Is Dr. Apizaco in any trouble? Should I be worried?"

Jane was about to reply but Lisbon just gave him 'the look' and he clamped his mouth shut without saying anything.

"Do you know where he is right now?" asked Ortega, now looking ready to propel himself out the door, depending on the answer.

"No, I'm sorry. He took a month sabbatical to go on a dig. He's not due back until . . . let's see . . . " he pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew what looked like a log book bound in imitation red leather. His finger traced down a page and came to rest. "Until Monday of next week." Jane nearly smiled. He really did like this man. He kept_ written _records and didn't have to tap away at a keyboard before he could access them.

"Do you know any of these people?" asked Lisbon, handing him a folder. The photos inside it were of the previous victims, some of the images taken from driver's license photos or family snap-shots if available; if not then those taken by the ME at autopsy.

Sangupta's face, once again, looked stricken. He was also beginning to look a little greenish.

"This one, the woman from the dig. I think I may have met her in Rebecca's office." He handed Lisbon an image of the curly haired woman he'd identified earlier. It was one of those taken post mortem.

Jane subtly scooted his chair back. Being puked on was one of his phobias. Even when Charlotte was ill, it was Angela who'd had sole responsibility for cleaning up any accidents. He'd always felt bad about his lack of ability to deal with it but, he'd only have added to the problem with 'sympathy puking'. In spite of his many skills, it was something he'd never been able to control.

"This one." said Sangupta, handing Lisbon the blow-up of a driver's license photo "Israel de la Cruz was a landscaper here for many years. He retired three years ago." The doctor was looking greener by the minute.

"He was the first victim . . . that we know of." answered Ortega; like Jane, he was also preparing to retreat quickly if needed.

The shaken man continued to look through the folder and plucked one more from the group.

"She was one of our most promising." said Sangupta in a shaky voice "I can't believe she was . . . taken." He looked at it for several more moments before handing it to Lisbon. It was the post mortem photo of Josephina Ortiz-Beaudreaux, the young woman found on the steps of the observatory. Seeing his greenish tinge, Lisbon was sorry she didn't have a less graphic representation of the victim.

He continued to look through the folder, thankfully, recognizing no others. He abruptly stood, a sheen of sweat having appeared on his brow and handed the folder to the woman from the CBI.

"I'm sorry, excuse me. Madeline can get you what you need . . . my apologies. Madeline!" he yelled without bothering to use the intercom in front of him. With that, he bolted from behind the desk and through a door they assumed was the entrance to a restroom; slamming it behind him.

"That was close." Jane exhaled in relief. "I thought he was going to blow right in front of us."

Both Lisbon and Ortega looked at him without amusement as the anoretic admin assistant popped through the door that connected to the outer office; alarm reflected in her huge eyes.

"Doctor Sangupta wasn't feeling well." explained Lisbon; the faint sound of retching came from the other side of the door as if to underscore her statement.

"He said you could supply us with some information." added Ortega as the young woman silently revealed her concern in a movement like that of a gasping goldfish.

Madeline, glanced toward the restroom. The disturbing sound of the good doctor who, by now, had possibly thrown up his socks echoed in the quiet office.

...

"So, now we know the connection." said Ortega as he, once again, steered them onto the freeway.

"It's Apizaco" said Jane matter of factly.

"How do you know? Could have been one of the others in the group."

"The man obviously has some 'issues'. He's recently come under a lot of stress, what with losing his wife and children, and he's begun wearing clothing that's a little 'different'.

"All those things may be true but, you wear clothing that's a little _different_ too. Why would that be any indication.?"

"Lisbon, I don't think a three-piece suit could be classified as 'different'." huffed Jane

"No, not if you're a seventy year old Wall Street investment banker but, admit it Jane. Who else would be wearing one,_ if he could_, in this weather?"

Ortega listened to them bicker with an inward smile, thinking _They're not married but they may as well be._

The disagreement wound down and Ortega asked, "What makes you so sure, Patrick, that it's Apizaco?"

Jane hesitated a moment before answering. _Well, the man couldn't think I'm any crazier than he probably already thinks._

"Polmocena told me I must find the one who wears 'the clothing of a warrior'." he said softly in Spanish.

"Good enough for me." answered Ortega as Lisbon looked at the two in puzzlement.

...

They exited the freeway at a sign that read 'If you lived in Goleta, you'd be home by now'. _No doubt the brainchild of an overachieving chamber of commerce,_ thought Jane.

Ortega had already phoned his team to meet them at the Apizaco house with SWAT back-up. Lisbon had summoned her team as well, telling them to 'gear-up'.

With the residential lots having been divided into smaller parcels, the neighborhood they drove into was a strange mix of older residential and newer industrial. Large commercial structures had popped up here and there like toadstools.

These concrete walled buildings or 'tilt-ups' were a quick and economical way to build. The walls were actually constructed on the ground and then tilted upward and fastened together. It was a startling process. One day, there would be what looked like a vacant field, and the next, there would appear, as if magically, a solid looking concrete monstrosity in the middle of it.

They turned right on a street that had one of these structures squatting on the corner adjacent to the main road but the remainder of the thoroughfare was quietly residential and tree lined; still untouched by the plague of progress.

They stopped several doors down from a ranch style home that was probably built post World War II. The yellowing lawn was nearly knee high and the rest of the property looked sorely in need of upkeep. The wind pushed and pulled at the branches of the eucalyptus trees that overhung the modest home.

Like the Hitchcock movie, vehicles quietly gathered along the street like birds on a power line. People in kevlar vests exited them silently. Jane saw Cho, Rigsby and VanPelt wearing the protective gear as they stood next to the SUV.

He turned back toward Lisbon and saw her donning a vest. Ortega already had his on. At his signal, the group silently advanced toward the house.

The wind kicked up clouds of dust from the tired yard as they stole up to the front door, guns drawn.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC - What do you think they'll find?


	9. Small Sacrifice

Blood Wind - Chapter 9

**I know, I know. Though fantasy is my preference, (the land where no dishes must be washed, no laundry must be done and no cats cough up hairballs on your sofa), RL sometimes gets in the way. What complicates it even more is . . . I'm lazy. Please review if you're still speaking to me. I won't blame you if you're not.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, no money being made. Only in dreams.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Small Sacrifice

The door was quickly breached and Jane could hear the pounding footsteps of those who burst into the small house in their organized rush. Various voices, Cho's among them, called out the word 'Clear!' as each room was searched and no one found.

After a surprisingly brief period of time, Lisbon came back out to the front porch and summoned Jane.

Ortega came out also to order his forensics team to begin their work. The diminutive duo almost bowled the consultant over in their haste to get down the narrow concrete walkway while carrying their bulky evidence kits.

Jane stepped over the threshold; cautiously surveying his surroundings as though someone may still be lurking in a dark corner somewhere but, the walls enclosed only emptiness. There were no crazed killers hiding in the recesses of this very ordinary home.

At this time of early evening in this neighborhood, the house should have been filled with the squeals and laughter of scuffling children, the metallic clank of pots set on the stove to simmer, the humming of a woman preparing the evening meal. The sounds tonight were the scuffling of those still searching for evidence and the metallic sounds that were part of the process of securing unneeded weapons. The only humming was that of the wind as it rushed through the tops of tall eucalyptus lining the street outside.

In a corner of the darkened living room stood a small altar made of stacked plastic milk crates. On the woven cloth that covered it were candles and small brightly colored clay dishes containing corn, cocoa beans, loose tobacco and what looked to be bits of feathers and fur all arrayed around a carved quartz figure.

Displayed directly in front of the statue were small glass vials containing dark red liquid. There were six of them.

In addition to the eerie display were trappings of everyday family life scattered about; discarded toys and soccer balls, baseballs, basketballs, etcetera. The children, apparently, were very much into sports.

Jane wandered into the kitchen. On the stove sat abandoned pots and pans crusted with dried food. In the sink was piled a mountain of dirty dishes. He peered into the cupboards; there weren't many foodstuffs in evidence. The refrigerator was also devoid of anything edible. There were a few bottles of water and an ancient container of milk. Jane gingerly picked it up and turned it to read the expiration date. It had expired over a month ago.

On the old fashioned chrome and formica kitchen table, were piles of discarded bills and flyers. On the top of one of the piles sat the final notice from Pacific Gas and Electric. Jane noted the utilities were scheduled to be shut off tomorrow.

He strolled into the first of what appeared to be three bedrooms. This was probably the master bedroom. On the scarred dresser top were several photos; some of them tucked into the seam between the glass and wood of the large framed mirror that hung over it.

Jane was startled as Mary the tech bustled in behind him. He turned toward her as she gave him the look that said _'You'd better not fuck with anything.'_

Smiling benignly at her, he turned back toward the photos; several of the same children at various ages. There were three boys. In his most recent photo, the oldest looked to be about eleven or twelve. They all had the look of characters drawn by Disney; gentle, soulful, long lashed. It was like looking into the eyes of Bambi.

In a silver frame was a picture of a woman with long, silky, black hair and large dark eyes. Next to it, in a wooden frame, the image of a man dressed in suit and tie. It appeared to be some sort of official portrait. Wavy, longish, brown hair was swept back from a lean face. The coloring and hair texture was off but the features were those of one who could claim Indian blood. Jane could see why the children were so beautiful; they'd inherited the best physical features of both parents.

Jane opened the door to the small closet. Inside it were various articles of men's clothing. On one side of it were empty hangars, a lone silk scarf draped neatly on one of them. Even in its folded state, Jane thought he recognized the familiar blues and yellows. He reached for it and removed it from the hangar; shaking it loose to hold it up in front of him. He caught his breath when he realized it was Van Gogh's 'The Starry Night' vibrantly reproduced on the lustrous square of silk.

Dropping it as though it was on fire and turning to flee, he came face to face with a calendar tacked to the back of the door. It was one of those given away by banks and bakeries. This one had been proudly distributed to its customers by the Panaderia Del Sol, (The Sun Bakery). The colorful illustration was that of an Aztec warrior carrying an unconscious maiden. It was a popular iconic image for those of Mexican descent. It supposedly depicts the legend of star crossed lovers who were turned into volcanoes as the warrior dies of a broken heart next to his deceased beloved.

The squares numbered with the day of the month and a small depiction of the phase of the moon showed neatly written doctor's appointments, soccer practices and the other ordinary notations of an ordinary life.

The calendar was still showing the month previous. He flipped up the page and found the current month. On tomorrow's date which showed the symbol for a full moon, were two hastily scribbled words - El ultimo.

"Lisbon! Ortega!" yelled Jane without moving from the spot behind the opened closet door.

Both detective and agent rushed into the room to see Jane staring at a date circled on the calendar. Ortega gripped the blonde man's shoulders to move him gently aside so that he and Lisbon could more closely examine it.

"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the detective.

"What does it mean?" asked Lisbon looking from the page and back again to the tanned face next to her.

"The last one." answered Jane and Ortega together.

...

The two groups congregated in the ragged front yard in the settling dusk. Neighbors gathered on the periphery, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever their imaginations had conjured now that the threat of gunfire was over; not that that would have deterred some of the more adventurous.

Lisbon knew it was human nature to be curious but they still annoyed the crap out of her. She snapped at the closest uniformed officer to shoo everyone back as some of the onlookers grew emboldened and began to edge closer toward the house.

Ortega flipped open his cell and began barking instructions to whoever was on the receiving end of the call. The wind whipped the sound away as it left his lips and he walked to the leeward side of the building, his free hand pressed against the side of his head to block out the roar of the wind.

...

They'd gone back to Parker Center to evaluate, discuss tactics and to organize into teams; drawing from the available detectives and uniformed officers and those who could be called back from off-duty status.

"We won't see any more killings until tomorrow night." said Jane

"Why? Because of the words scribbled on the calender?" queried the detective, his brow knitted. "I don't really think we can trust the notes of someone who's, obviously, a few taquitos shy of a fiesta platter."

"Even if the interval between the other murders was exact, it won't fit the legend if it's any sooner. Tomorrow night will be a full moon. The sacrifice must be timed exactly for it to be acceptable to Tonatiuh. The killer's in too deep now. If he screws up, he'll have to start over." said Jane with chilling calm.

The members of the two groups stared at the consultant; horror and/or disbelief registering in various degrees on their faces. Only Cho seemed immune. What he thought about this particular bit of information didn't show on his face, pretty much nothing ever did.

Urgency was now in the rushing air. Adrenaline flowed but it had not outlet.

Ortega addressed Lisbon and her team, his face was grim, his dark eyes holding deadly purpose. "I need you guys to cover a couple of the hospitals. We're down a few teams due to _budget cuts_" he said the last two words thru clenched teeth.

"You got it." said Lisbon "Where do you want us?"

"We have three hospitals left to cover: Queen of Angels, Scripps Silver Lake and Women's."

"Which one would have the highest concentration of patients of Indian descent?" asked Lisbon.

"That would probably be Women's Hospital. it's right in the middle of East L.A. but, as I said earlier, nearly everyone of Mexican descent is at least part Indian. There are babies that fit that criteria all over the city." answered the detective.

"He won't bother with babies that don't fit the profile. Women's Hospital sounds like a good bet. I have a hunch." was all Jane could say.

Ortega looked at him appraisingly. "Good enough." he said

"Teams as follows." said Lisbon in her 'senior-agent-in-charge' voice.

"Cho and VanPelt."

Rigsby looked crestfallen at not being teamed with his former paramour.

"Rigsby and . . . "

"I'll take Jane." said Ortega to everyone's surprise; the consultant's as well.

Lisbon didn't necessarily feel relieved. Obviously, Ortega didn't realize what he was getting into. Going on stakeout with Jane could be interesting or just really really annoying.

Jane raised his eyebrows and said "You know I'm just a consultant. I don't carry a gun or even a pocket knife for that matter."

"You don't have to." smiled Ortega as he patted the Berretta on his hip. "Besides, there'll be at least two uniforms with every team."

They were given the coordinates of the various hospitals and went quickly to their vehicles. The heat once again seared them as they emerged from the air-conditioned building. Lisbon and Rigsby took the SUV; Ortega his unmarked sedan. Cho and VanPelt hitched a ride with the two uniformed officers assigned to their designated hospital.

As they walked in a loose group across the parking lot, Ortega leaned toward Lisbon and whispered quietly, "Don't worry, I'll bring him back without a scratch."

Lisbon looked at the detective's smiling eyes and smiled back, "You'd better 'cause he's only a rental."

Jane wasn't entirely comfortable working with anyone other than those in his CBI team. He knew them. Knew he'd be out of harm's way if they ran across anything dicey. Not that he was overly concerned about his own safety. To everyone's dismay, he'd already proven that several times.

Still, he felt much better with Lisbon or one of the others watching his back. They were used to his way of working. It seemed to drive everyone else crazy for some reason and he didn't want to waste time and energy proving his viewpoint on anything.

Ortega walked quickly to his sedan with Jane following behind. They found the sedan in the boiling parking lot. They opened all four doors and rolled the windows down to dispel the superheated air trapped inside the vehicle before entering and belting themselves in. They joined a large caravan that pulled quickly out of the driveway of Parker Center and then dispersed to the winds.

Ortega and Jane drove in silence for several minutes before Jane posed his question.

"Why me?"

"Why not?" was the answer.

"No gun, no training and, according to Lisbon, no sense."

"She's a tough one." chuckled Ortega, "Hot but tough."

_You have no idea, detective._ thought Jane before commenting with admiration in his voice, "It is quite a rush to see her tackle someone twice her size and bring them down like timber."

"Hot" said Ortega

"You bet."

"Tough." said Ortega

"In spades."

After a few more moments of the two men contemplating how well the adjectives applied to Senior-Agent-in-Charge Teresa Lisbon, Jane came back to earth to reiterate his original question, "Why me?"

Ortega mulled it over silently for several moments before answering. "Do you remember any of your, ah . . . adventure night before last?"

Jane answered quickly, "Some of it." as he once again felt a flush come over his skin and hoping that Ortega wouldn't notice. He usually had better control of such things. From childhood, his father had trained him to control his 'tells'. It was disconcerting to be so transparent.

Ortega glanced quickly at Jane sitting quietly in the passenger seat before speaking again. The consultant showed no reaction but, the slightest bit of additional color was creeping beneath the now peeling sunburn on the blonde man's impassive face.

"Do you remember anything the old woman told you?"

"Yes, actually, some but, it didn't make a lot of sense at the time. Still doesn't." added Jane with a slight smile.

"What is it that's puzzling?"

Jane hesitated before deciding, _What the hell, he already knows most of it anyway . . . _

"She said that I was 'El Angel de nuestra ciudad' (The angel of our city), and that I had to stay here until it was done."

"She told me pretty much the same thing about you. Said to protect you until it was finished. That you had something important to do. That evil wouldn't win if I kept you safe."

"Is that why you picked me for your basketball team?"

"Partly. I also think you really do know what you're about. I think your . . . talents . . .. will help solve this case. I want to be there when that happens. This is my city. I was born here and my parents and grandparents were born here. It's mine to protect. You're going to help me. The bruja said you have the answer. It may seem a little mystical, a little like something a rational detective shouldn't be relying on but, I believe her. Must be the Indian blood." laughed Ortega.

Jane looked intently at Ortega as he steered them through the crowded streets toward their destination.

"Well, I'm sure Lisbon would think the 'angel' thing is hilarious applied to yours truly. She'd think it's probably one of the funniest things she's ever heard." smiled Jane genuinely.

"You give her a hard time?"

"She'd say so."

"She right?"

"Yeh, she's fun to wind up."

They exited the freeway and made their way on surface streets to a busy four-lane boulevard lined with mom and pop grocery stores, dress shops and the kind of store that sold just about everything, from I-pods to potato chips, under one roof. The sale ads plastered in the storefront windows were all in Spanish and the sound of trumpets, guitars and voices harmonizing in the language of the Conquistadors blasted through various sound systems and floated on the heated air.

There was a rhythm that throbbed and pulsed through the crowded thoroughfare. It was a country within a country. Old women in long skirts and long braids down their backs mingled with young sloe-eyed girls in tight tank tops and even tighter jeans. Old men in cowboy hats shouldered their way past boys in white t-shirts and the current gang affiliated clothing. All had the look of a mixed people. European and Indian. Skin color varied from that not unlike Jane's own to nearly mahogany. They were all people of the sun.

Ortega parked the sedan in the smallish lot next to the hospital which was an unimposing building no taller than four stories. The exterior was covered in colorful tile murals of historic nature including what looked to be Aztec designs and figures.

_Good sign._ Thought Jane as they exited the unmarked car that occupied a _no parking _zone. Ortega flipped a placard onto the dash as they locked up and walked toward the main entrance.

They made their way across the worn lobby and the detective flashed his badge at the front desk. They were directed to the third floor where obstetrics and and maternity were located.

Meeting up with the two uniformed officers assigned to this hospital and the security personnel who were always on hand, they discussed where best to deploy themselves.

It was decided that Ortega and Jane would stay in the small waiting area adjacent to the main corridor that led to the nursery. It wasn't a room unto itself but more of a large alcove with brightly colored chairs and a coffee vending machine.

There would be a uniformed officer at the entrance to the obstetrics ward and the four security guards would patrol the rest of the hospital. Jane told them to watch for a man who would undoubtedly be wearing clothing or jewelry with an Aztec motif. He would be looking for male infants not more than a day old.

Ortega admonished them to take no chances and to use deadly force if necessary. Actually, what he said was: "Shoot the bastard if he so much as twitches toward someone!"

Jane settled into one of the chairs and picked up a copy of _La Opinion', _a local Spanish language newspaper. Displayed within its pages were bloody corpses of the latest victims of the drug wars and various natural and unnatural calamities. There were all manner of disturbing images within the tabloid. Jane put it down and picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times. Life was ugly enough as it was. He didn't need to see it documented in such graphic fashion. He turned to the section containing the crossword and sudoku puzzles.

Ortega sat staring out at the corridor, leaning back in his chair and chewing gum. Jane smiled to himself. There was no mistaking the man was a cop.

"You know, he won't show up tonight?" said Jane as he completed one of the crosswords that had already been started then abandoned by a previous reader.

"I don't know that. Can't take the chance." said Ortega calmly, remaining nearly reclined in a chair that wasn't a recliner.

"Probably for the best." nodded Jane without argument, not wanting to annoy the man who had to give him a ride back to Parker Center. He felt he'd already walked enough on this trip.

The remainder of the evening and the rest of the night was spent in boring fashion. No one that even looked remotely suspicious came their way. Jane had finally gone in search of a cup of tea and a snack. He'd already had enough coffee to make his hands shake. He didn't know how Lisbon did it. She drank many cups of the strong stuff throughout the day and even into the evening. She'd never mentioned having trouble sleeping. If he drank that much coffee, he'd just short-out and go up in a puff of smoke.

...

Andres waited in the parking lot. It was past midnight and he'd watched many people come and go through the hospital's ER entrance. He had only a few more hours to find the baby.

Only one more and the future would be safe; the god appeased. He could leave after this.

He sat motionless in the blue Toyota. The tip of his cigarette a small blip of light like the glow of a firefly.

He still felt uneasy about the wind's warning of 'another'. Who was it? What did this person look like? He knew that he wouldn't appear as one of the people of the sun. He'd have to be very careful. He didn't want to shed any 'unnecessary' blood but, he would if he had to.

He caressed the medallion around his neck. Once more running his fingers over the smooth surface of the ruby. The medallion was solid gold and worth more than the car in which he sat. He'd never placed any value on the material. It was probably one of the reasons his wife called it quits.

Aricele was tired of driving clunkers and shopping at the dollar store. She was married to a college professor who made enough money to make their lives reasonably comfortable but, most of his income had gone into his research: trips to dig sites, supplies, travel expenses for the team.

She'd finally had enough. He'd never taken her seriously during their frequent and loud 'discussions'. He should have. One day he'd arrived home from work to find a note taped to the fridge.

The neatly written note said she was sorry but, she couldn't live this way anymore. It wasn't fair to her or the children. She hoped he'd get the help he desperately needed. The help she'd been trying to get him to seek since he'd returned from Afghanistan. She still loved him . . . _yeah._

He really couldn't blame her for leaving. He blamed himself but, in a way, it was freeing. Now, he only had to worry about obligation to the sun god.

Aricele didn't know he was doing this for her . . . for them. He was saving their future and they didn't know it. They couldn't appreciate his sacrifice for his wife and sons and his people. This warrior life was a lonely one. He missed them but they didn't understand that this quest was sacred. This was why he'd been born.

He waited.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC


	10. Dust

Blood Wind - Chapter 10

**Here's another. Please let me know what you think. Should be concluded in a couple more chapters if I can find my way out of this maze.**

**Once again, if you speak Spanish, my apologies for mangling it.**

**Disclaimer: If they were mine, it wouldn't be fan-fiction, it would be fan-nirvana.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Dust

The day had passed quietly. The only excitement, the arrival of a large boisterous family awaiting the birth of a new member. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and their offspring found places in the brightly colored chairs on the far side of the alcove.

Jane set down his newspaper to observe almost longingly. It had been a long time since he'd had a family of his own; even the small one that consisted of himself, Angela and Charlotte. He'd never really known the kind of family in front of him right now but, it must be really something to be part of one. _How can I miss what I've never had?_ he wondered.

The team was his family. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when they'd become so. He knew things had been different after he'd been shot and nearly died in the gutter last year. With their care and kindness, they'd saved his life; maybe in more ways than one if he'd ever admit it.

After his wife and daughter had been killed, any and all feeling had been tamped down until it was compacted; hardened and solidified like a lump of shiny black coal in his chest.

Not that he was ever known for being genuinely warm and fuzzy toward anyone but Angela and Charlotte. At first, the team had only been a means to an end; his avenue to Red John. It had been easy to lie to and deceive them; to work them for what he could get.

His wife and child had been his heart. For the most part, they still are but, Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and VanPelt . . . occasionally even Hightower, showed him kindness when he didn't deserve it. They put up with his crap, (only some of it intentional), and cut him slack when they didn't have to. When they thought it necessary, they'd called him on it too. He'd taken the lectures and chastisement; looked ashamed, contrite, whatever, and then done as he'd pleased.

It cost him nothing.

He'd had no emotional investment in any of it but, it was different now. He didn't know how or why but, it was different.

He was startled back to the here and now when he looked up to see dark eyes studying him. A small, curly haired girl of three or so was staring at him intently, taking in every detail of his appearance.

"Donde estan su mama' y papa'?, (Where are your mommy and daddy?)" he asked

He could hear the chatter of the family abruptly silenced. The group as one seemed to hold its breath as the blonde man smiled delightedly and looked toward them.

A tall curly haired man, presumably the child's father, rose to fetch her saying, "Angela! Leave the man alone! Ven aqui!, (come here!)"

"It's OK, she's not bothering me." said Jane quickly to the young man on the other side of the alcove. "You have a beautiful daughter; as beautiful as her name. It's the same as my wife's."

Wordlessly asking for permission with only a gesture and raising of eyebrows, he received a hesitant nod. Jane took the child's hand to lead her back to her now subdued family.

Walking up to the group, he asked who was awaiting the new addition. He'd already concluded it was probably Angela's father. He was the only one who seemed nervous enough and the right age.

He introduced himself to them. The adults in the group identified themselves in turn. Alex, Angela's dad had taken her onto his lap and the child shyly smiled at Jane from the safety of her perch.

"Are you awaiting a child also?" asked a substantial, grey-haired, woman in heavily accented English.

"No, I've already had my child." he answered, his smile still in place.

"Then, you're one of the cops?" growled a surly teenager, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he lounged against the wall to Jane's right.

"No, not a cop." said Jane without losing the easy smile. "Only cop adjacent; I just work with them."

"Stephan! No ser grosero!, (Don't be rude!)" barked the older woman in warning; pinning the boy with a look of disapproval. Jane's guess was that she's probably the kid's grandmother.

"It's alright, senora, he hasn't offended me." said the blonde man.

"He shouldn't be rude. He knows better!" she said. "Did you hear me Stephan?".

"Yes Nana." grumbled the boy, surrendering under the fierce glare of his grandmother. In fact, everyone in the group seemed to look chastised. She was a tough old bird.

"Apologize!".

"Sorry." he mumbled toward Jane.

"That man over there is a cop." nodded the cop-adjacent consultant toward Ortega who stared back at them in amusement.

"No shit." said the kid as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, (it probably was).

"Stephan!" came the woman's warning again.

"Sorry, Nana."

"Aye, children these days." muttered the grandmother shaking her head in exasperation.

Jane just smiled and waved his hand in easy dismissal. Apparently, now feeling comfortable enough with the stranger, the family peppered him with questions about the presence of a policeman in the waiting room. They'd all certainly heard of the 'Southland Slasher' and voiced their merely curious and sometimes worried inquiries; hugging the children in their laps tighter as he answered honestly.

...

The ancient Buick pulled up in a rush to the ER entrance. The driver, a dark diminutive young man jumped out and hurried toward the sliding glass doors of the entrance while yelling at the top of his lungs, "Ayuda! Por favor!" (Help! Please!), my wife and son need help!"

The back passenger door popped open and an equally diminutive woman, who, despite her stony expression, showed stress and pain on her smooth copper face, swung her legs through the doorway to rest her feet on the asphalt. Keeping her seat in the car, she sat clutching a squalling infant wrapped in a towel to her chest. Its tiny body still showed evidence of its dramatic and probably hasty entry into the world.

Andres sat quickly upright; his body going from loose spring to tightened coil. He quickly exited the Toyota and pulled on the white coat with the name tag pinned over the pocket and hung the stethoscope around his neck.

...

Ortega, still reclined in the non-recliner, was amused by the interaction between the consultant and the large, boisterous family. The man was truly a puzzle; a mixture of clinical detachment and friendly warmth. The party ended when a nurse came to announce the birth of a new member . . . a healthy little girl.

The new father looked startled but not disappointed. Jane shook his hand in congratulation. Angela was handed off to one of the other family members and her father followed the nurse down the hallway to see his wife and new daughter.

The family rose from their chairs to either straggle after him or return home. It was time to feed the kids and put them to bed.

"Adios, Angela." said Jane giving her name the Spanish pronunciation which made the 'g' an 'h' sound. The child smiled again shyly and waved her little hand as she was carried away.

"Buena suerte y tenga cuidado, (Good luck and be careful)." said the grandmother as she turned to follow her family after giving him a small pat on the shoulder. The boy who'd received the correction in manners slunk down the hallway after her without acknowledging him.

...

He'd decided it was now or never. The sun was beginning to descend in a fiery display toward the western horizon. Once again, the sky glowed like the embers of a newly banked fire.

"Senora! Let me help you. I'm a doctor." he said as he extended his arms for the infant.

The woman looked up at him with frightened eyes and hugged the baby tighter to her bosom.

"It's OK." soothed Andres, hoping to sound genuine. "Let me help your son." He had to get ahold of the baby before her husband and the medical people came out to the car. His heart was pounding; the rush of adrenaline made his hands shake.

The small woman, reluctantly, relinquished her tight hold on the child and let 'el doctor' take him from her arms.

...

"Well." said Ortega standing stiffly and stretching. He could feel his tired back realign; audibly popping and crunching with the movement. Jane winced. How the man could have remained in that chair in that position for so long he had no idea.

Lisbon had long ago accused her consultant of being hyperactive. During the wait, he'd been up and down every five minutes. He hadn't had a chance to grab a book before he came and without one, it was hard to be still for very long. Long ago, he and his wife had actually been worried their daughter would inherit her father's restlessness. Luckily, Charlotte had gotten her mother's strong and steady temperament . . . and her beauty.

"The next shift should be here in a couple of minutes, we may as well meet them at the entrance." said Ortega.

He radioed one of the security guards to take their place during the shift change. As soon as they were sure the floor was covered, they strode to the elevator that would take them down to the lobby.

They'd just reached the ground floor when all hell broke loose.

...

Andres heard footsteps rushing up behind him. The new mother was startled as he quickly tucked the infant into his jacket and turned to run. He heard screams and shouts as he tore off across the crowded lot, dodging between parked cars, slipping between the resting vehicles.

"Police! Stop or we'll shoot!"

...

People in scrubs and others in uniforms with badges poured out of the ER entrance. A small young woman in stained clothing was screaming loudly, repeating over and over, Mi hijo!, Mi hijo!, (My son! My son!) in a desperate wail.

Ortega pulled his Berretta and joined the running group. Jane halted at the doorway and stood rooted to the spot, staring after them, stomach lurching as he realized they'd been outsmarted and a baby had been taken.

Led by a small, dark-complected young man they chased the figure in the white jacket. The group was running flat-out across the parking lot. Those who had guns had drawn them and held them at the ready.

...

Andres reached the low block wall separating the hospital lot from that of the strip mall next door. By the sound of running footfalls behind him, there was quite a posse in pursuit. He was confident they wouldn't start blasting away at someone carrying a baby. They wouldn't risk hitting the kid.

Swiftly reaching the little blue compact, he slid behind the wheel; careful not to injure the baby who was now crying loudly. As he turned the key, the engine roared to life.

Thankful the car was an automatic, he spun the wheel with one hand while clutching the baby to him with the other. Looking back over his shoulder as he sped out of the lot onto the boulevard, he caught a glimpse of uniformed cops, people in hospital scrubs and a couple of others in civilian clothing.

He was on the freeway within three minutes.

...

From next door, Jane heard shouting and then the sound of tires squealing into the approaching night.

The wind swept defiantly across the group left panting from exertion on the hot asphalt of the strip-mall parking lot. This viento de Satan', (wind of Satan), made them squint but, it was a toss-up as to what made their eyes water . . . dust or anger and frustration.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC - Please review if you think it's worth it and thank you to those who've posted reviews and added this story to their alerts and favorites.


	11. Circle Within a Circle

Blood Wind - Chapter 11

**Here's another. Not sure if it was ready to post but, I was feeling guilty about not putting anything in your Christmas stockings. Hope you all had a wonderful holiday. Will try to get back to those lovely people who sent season's greetings and messages. This has been a somewhat lean year for me, (only financially, mind you; I'm a little too 'fluffy' to use the term any other way). They made Christmas even brighter. Thank you.**

**To all those who have the patience to read this story - the next chapter is almost ready. It shouldn't be as long a wait but, I've been over-optimistic before. Should be up within three to five more days.**

**Disclaimer: Guess I'm still on Santa's bad list. Don't own any of them.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Circle Within a Circle

The Amber-alert would be on every freeway sign in the state within minutes. He exited at the Record Street offramp and drove to a nearby convenience store; parking the car behind behind the small building where it was partially hidden by a dumpster.

Taking the other set of keys from his pocket, he gathered the baby in his arms, re-wrapping the towel around its tiny body and hunched over to shield it from the scouring wind as he walked across the street. The shiny Ford Taurus sat at the curb in front of an upholstery shop. The car was only a couple of years old and was the newest he'd ever owned. He'd used the last of his money to purchase it from the private seller who'd listed it online.

He had to have everything in place. He'd paid cash for the vehicle and, of course, used a fictitious name in his transaction with the middle aged couple. He couldn't afford to fail because of a flaw in details.

The baby had been crying since being taken from his mother. The jaguar warrior chastised himself for forgetting the milk.

...

Every cop in the state was on the lookout for the blue Toyota its driver and the small bundle he carried.

Looking worn and bleary-eyed, Lisbon's team and every available cop on LAPD's roster once again gathered at Parker Center. No one was going to get any sleep until this was over. Not that people slept well during the Santa Anas but, this practically guaranteed at least temporary insomnia for those involved in the search.

Though no one looked happy, Detective Grace VanPelt looked absolutely stricken. She couldn't believe that after all of the extra precaution, a baby had still been abducted. Trying to maintain a professional distance was difficult . . . _a little baby . . . a tiny little baby._

A few of the them looked surreptitiously toward the preoccupied looking, frizzy-haired consultant and the grim detective-in-charge beside him.

Lisbon knew Jane would feel personally responsible for this. Once again, he'd failed to protect a child. _If we don't get the baby back alive it may well tip him over the edge once-and-for-all, _thought his boss and friend.

The man in question showed no emotion whatsoever. Whatever he'd needed to lock down was securely in place but, Lisbon and her team were worried. If Jane fell apart again, could he even be put back together?

Ortega's jaws were working overtime on his wad of chewing gum. He couldn't believe they'd fucked up and let the bastard take the kid. The kidnaper had vanished in minutes, leaving distraught parents and murderously pissed-off law enforcement in the dust.

The baby's mother was the only one who'd seen him face-to-face. She'd been calm enough to pick him out of a hastily assembled photo line-up but, had collapsed into her husband's arms as soon as she'd made the I.D. She'd been sedated and was now resting in a room, still clinging for dear life to her stoic little husband.

They'd learned the young couple had recently emigrated from Central Mexico and were indeed, full-blooded Indians indigenous to that area. Their small stature and coppery skin had probably confirmed it in Apizaco's mind before he approached mother and child in the parking lot.

"Jane", asked Lisbon, "Your thoughts? Have you come up with anything that will help us find the baby?"

The consultant didn't speak for a moment, gathering said thoughts before turning them loose on the assembled.

"According to what I know of the ritual, the final sacrifice must be performed under the full moon. It's to confirm the sun god has power even over Metzli, the god of the night. At sunrise, the blood will be there for all to see. I don't think he'll harm the baby until some time after midnight when the moon is at its zenith. When it's directly overhead . . . well . . . we have to find the baby before then."

The hard expressions on the faces of those gathered before him reflected what they all felt. Lisbon took the moment to address them.

"I know we're all frustrated this isn't going the way it was supposed to. I know we're all worried about the child. I know that some of us are feeling guilty about Apizaco getting away with the baby in spite of our best efforts."

At her last sentence, many eyes cut to Ortega and Jane standing next to one another; Jane with hands in pockets staring off into space, Ortega chomping furiously on his gum, eyes focused on Lisbon.

"Well" continued the senior-agent-in-charge, an edge to her voice. "Don't! It's not going to help. Keep your shit together and concentrate on doing your job. You wanna beat yourself up? Do it when this is over. We don't have time for it right now. We've got work to do."

Ortega's estimate of this small package of green-eyed dynamite kicked up another notch. She was as tough as she appeared and that was saying something. The steely expression and aggressive stance was convincing enough . . . never mind the words.

Through her short speech, Jane stood quietly, eyes on some distant point, fingers moving, seeming to tally something invisible to the rest.

Still staring into the distance, he spoke "Apizaco will _have_ to sacrifice the child tonight. That's not even a question. What he's going to need is the full moon, of course, and a location that lets its light shine directly down on the place of sacrifice . . . the altar, so to speak. It can't be shaded by a roof or trees; nothing that will block the moonlight. It must be a place that has at least two-hundred and sixty steps; one for each day of the Aztec calender cycle.

_How does he keep all this shit in his head?_ wondered Rigsby as he stared admiringly at the blonde man in the ugly windbreaker.

The consultant looked directly at the people before him, "Where can we find such a place?" There was a murmuring from those assembled as they discussed and debated possible sites.

"Jane" asked Cho, "Why within the city limits? He's killed a couple of people in the suburbs already."

"As I'd mentioned before, those killed outside of the city were only collateral damage. The actual sacrifices took place within its limits. This is the City of the Queen of the Angels . . . La Ciudad de la Reina de Los Angeles. The Aztecs believed that the one who would save the fifth world, would do so in a place named after the mother of the spirits. It would be a place of many people, many different tribes would be together in this city. The city itself has a destiny to fulfill. The ritual can only be done within its boundaries."

He could hear snorts of disbelief from the crowd.

"Whether we believe the legend or not, the killer believes it." spoke up Lisbon, backing Jane's explanation.

"What makes you so certain about this?" asked Ortega's man Lowry.

Jane looked back unblinkingly at the tall detective, "I have some inside information on this." was all he said; grey-green eyes unreadable.

"We're supposed to rely on your word then? Commit all of our people to this based on some fairy tail? Where did you get this information? Is this one of your 'psychic visions'?" Lowry made air quotes around the term; not bothering to hide his obvious disbelief.

"There are no such thing as psychics, detective. You're apparently laboring under questionable beliefs of your own." was Jane's comeback in a low, even tone. There was snickering from somewhere near the back of the room.

Ortega stepped forward. "Mr. Jane has given us solid information before. It was just our . . . scratch that . . . _my_ fault that we didn't make good on it. I'm not going to let that happen again, I promise you." the mustachioed man had a look that left no doubt in the minds of those assembled. "How he comes to his conclusions isn't my concern. I expect you all to do your jobs. If you have any better ideas, I promise I'll listen to you and consider them . . . Anyone?"

Ortega waited expectantly for someone to speak up. There was only silence. Lowry dropped his eyes to the floor. The leader of his pack had spoken, he wouldn't challenge him.

After the moment had passed, Ortega said, "OK, let's get out the map."

Someone unrolled a large, vinyl-coated map and tacked it to the cork board over the photos of the victims and crime scenes. The latest, high-tech, imaging devices that one saw on practically every cop show on t.v. weren't in this year's budget. For now, they'd have to make-do in the old fashioned way.

"Circle all of the previous murder sites." instructed Jane, eyes focused on the map before him.

Lowry took a wipe-off marker and circled the locations as requested. The blue highlighted points formed a rough circle.

"Now," said Jane, "What's left within the circle that fits the requirements?"

There was, once again, the buzz of several voices suggesting and eliminating various possibilities. They were lucky to have several patrol officers within the group who were familiar with the area who came up with some possible locations others may have missed. Lowry now took a yellow marker and circled the suggested locations.

"Not enough steps, cross that one out."

"Shaded by trees." A slash was drawn over the yellow circle.

One-by-one, they narrowed it down.

"Too visible from the freeway." Another slash bisected a yellow circle on the map.

It was, finally, winnowed down to three possible locations.

Jane stood in front of the map, tapping his lip, concentrating intently on the remaining, un-crossed-out, sites.

"That one!" he said, pointing toward one of the yellow circles.

...

The drive to Whittier took only twenty-five minutes. They traveled east which is the 'good' direction at this hour. It was a long shot but, they needed to interview Apizaco's wife to see if she had any information that could lead them to her estranged husband. If they could locate the baby before he was actually taken to the site of sacrifice, chances of getting him back unharmed were much better.

Lisbon had elected Cho and herself to go question their suspect's estranged wife who was currently staying with her parents in this suburb southeast of Los Angeles proper.

Whittier was, at one time, lauded as the birthplace of a U.S. president. After said president's resignation in disgrace, the bedroom community had, with much relief, ceded the title to a neighboring city. Most of its 'historical' buildings had bitten the dust during a 7.0 several years earlier. Now, it was just another featureless dot on the map.

They pulled up to the front of a large, neatly maintained single story house. An elaborate brickwork pathway curved up to the front door. Maples and poplars rustled and swayed overhead as their fallen leaves, herded by the wind, moved in crackly drifts over the rectangles of red clay.

Lisbon rang the doorbell as Cho waited patiently beside her. They could hear the approach of someone with a heavy step. The white painted door opened to reveal a tall, solid looking, middle-aged man in paint stained clothing.

"May I help you?" he asked, the inflection of his voice not reflected on the strong blunt face.

Lisbon flashed her I.D. at him and announced "We're from the C.B.I. Does Aricele Apizaco live here?"

"May I look more closely at your identification?" asked the man politely; brown eyes cautiously evaluating the small woman and the muscular Asian man beside her.

Lisbon looked a little startled but handed him the leather case that held her badge and I.D.

He studied it for a moment then handed it back to her. "Can't be too careful." he explained without apology as he stepped back and gestured for them to enter; hastening to shut the door before the wind pushed any dried foliage inside.

They stepped into a neatly arranged living room that was the picture of a middle-class household. A large flat-screen television hung on one wall. Over the fireplace was hung a large ornately framed mirror. On the mantle below it were several family photos, many of them looking to be older graduation photos, soccer team photos and etcetera. A dog barked somewhere from a room beyond.

"Hush, Annie!." admonished the man in a stern voice and the dog immediately became silent.

"Aricele! There are people here who need to speak with you. Come into the living room."

"Be right there, Dad." came a woman's voice. After a moment, an attractive, dark-haired woman appeared, wiping beige paint from her hands onto the already paint stained rag she held.

Immediately, her posture became rigid and her mouth became a thin line as she spied the two agents standing in the middle of the living room. Her footsteps were hesitant as she approached them.

"Aricele Apizaco?" asked Lisbon. She didn't even have to announce they were police. It was pretty obvious who they were and, probably to Aricele, why they were here.

"Yes?" said the woman, apprehension on her face and in her voice as she nodded her head then blurted out, "Is this about Andres? Is he OK?"

"Ma'am, we're from the California Bureau of Investigation; do you have any idea where your husband may be?" asked Cho

"No. He should be at home or at work. What's wrong? Please . . . tell me."

Lisbon spoke this time, "Mrs. Apizaco, your husband is a person of interest regarding several killings here in Los Angeles County."

"Oh, my god!" said Aricele, both paint-stained hands flying upward to cover her mouth; tears immediately forming in her eyes.

She paled and began to tremble. Her father quickly grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her down on the sofa.

"Andres . . . Andres was under a lot of strain lately." she stammered. "Please, if he's done anything he needs help! He's not an evil man. Please don't hurt him. He just . . . he just needs help. He has problems."

_Yeah_, thought Cho, _His problem right now is how not to wind up in the gas chamber._

"You sure you're looking for the right guy?" interjected Aricele's father. From the information given them before they left for the bedroom community, they knew his name was David Romero.

"Yes Mr. Romero." answered the female half of the duo, "The information we've gathered so far points to Dr. Apizaco as a strong suspect."

Romero's broad impassive face studied them for another long moment before saying, "The guy's had a screw loose for some time now."

He awkwardly hugged his now weeping daughter closer to him. Her small shoulders shook from stifled sobs. Turning his head toward a doorway to what was probably a kitchen, he shouted, "Gloria! Get in here! Aricele needs you!"

Comforting a crying woman, even if that woman was his daughter, wasn't something he was good at. He could build her a house from the ground up with his own hands but, he couldn't comfort her. This just wasn't part of his skill-set. This was her mother's job.

A small, stocky woman with pale skin and sharp dark eyes, like those of a small wild animal appeared from the doorway. She wore a frilly apron over her jeans and sweatshirt. Lisbon wondered where one could even find such an apron these days. It looked like it belonged back in 1952. The woman sat next to her daughter and gathered her in her arms. Aricele no longer tried to hold back. Her loud sobs were muffled by her mother's ample bosom.

"He was a nice guy but, he never was wrapped too tight to begin with." said David Romero. Gloria looked at her husband and sadly nodded in agreement as her daughter continued to blubber wetly against her chest.

"Andres was never the same after he came back from his last tour of duty. He's been in the reserves for several years." explained .

"By 'not the same', what do you mean?" asked Lisbon

Romero pondered the question so long they thought he wasn't going to answer or he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.

"He made a decent living but, spent it all on those stupid digs in Mexico and Central America. It had gotten even worse in the last few months. He was never home and Aricele had to come to us for grocery money to feed the kids. I tried to talk some sense into him but it was like talking to that stupid dog. At least the dog has enough sense to come in out of the rain. Can't say the same for my daughter's husband."

"Daddy!" said Aricele in anguish.

"Mrs. Apizaco, do you have any idea where he could be staying?" asked Lisbon, ignoring the family dynamics at play. "We've already searched your house." She neglected to mention what they'd found on the makeshift alter.

"He doesn't have anywhere to go that I know of." she sniffed as she raised her head and wiped at her eyes with the stained paint rag she still held; her nose now a bright red.

"His parents died several years ago and he didn't have any close friends, just the people who went on the digs with him but, even _they_ weren't that close. We'd maybe have them over for a barbecue every once-in-a-while."

Romero spoke up in his deliberate way, "After Aricele made him get rid of that crap that was taking over their house, a few months ago I helped him move some crates to an old quonset hut in the valley. It's in an industrial park in Sunland, near the corner of Pico and Railroad Avenue."

Lisbon immediately stood and took the phone from her pocket, dialing VanPelt and relaying the information as she walked away from the family toward the doorway to the kitchen.

"Do you know James and Rebecca Villareal?" asked Cho

"Oh, no, no, no! Please don't tell me something has happened to them!" cried Aricele as another wave of anguish crashed over her.

Said Cho bluntly, "They're dead."

"I knew about Maria, it was on tonight's news but, I didn't know about James and Rebecca." she sobbed, tears now streaming down her face; eyes beginning to puff up to go with the red nose.

"The news people haven't released the information about the Villareal's yet." said Lisbon as she rejoined them; feeling sorry for the woman who had to face the fact her husband was likely a crazed serial killer.

"Their daughter, Isabel . . . is she OK?" asked the wife of Andres Apizaco, her voice small and apprehensive.

"I'm sorry." was all Lisbon said gently.

The distraught woman pitched forward off the sofa in a dead faint. Her father caught her before she hit the floor.

...

He tried to shush the infant in his arms. He softly explained to the boy what an honor it was to be the chosen one. No matter what he said, of course, the baby continued to cry loudly.

It would be several more hours until the moon rose and would be even longer before it was directly overhead. He'd have to find him some milk to see if that would sooth, (and silence) him. The wind was, no doubt, not helping matters. It blew off the edge of the towel he'd draped over the baby's head and ruffled the thick, straight black hair. It seemed to distress the baby even more and it upped the volume of its cries.

"It's OK mijo, it's just the wind. It won't hurt you." soothed Andres as he re-draped the end of the towel over the baby's head and tried to tuck it more securely. _Damn wind. _

He still felt conflicted at having to sacrifice a baby. He'd almost stopped himself from killing the little girl but, Tonatiuh wouldn't let him quit. The sun god had whispered incessantly into his ear that he must complete his task. He must save the people. He couldn't stop until the blood flowed down the steps. If he couldn't steel himself to do what must be done - all would be lost. The people of the sun would be no more; the world itself would be no more.

He'd tried to explain that to James and Rebecca, the lovely couple he'd taken on several digs across the border. They couldn't be persuaded to give their daughter to the sun god. He'd had to kill them to get her. After they lay dead, he took the child by the hand. She put up no resistance; she only stared blankly at her parents lying on the bloody floor. Perhaps his words of explanation had gotten through to her. Perhaps she knew it was a tremendous honor to be chosen.

All during the drive from her home, she'd said not a word. The only thing she seemed to react to was the small jade disk that dangled from a red cord tied to the rear-view mirror. Aricele had put it there, saying that any extra protection was welcome in the old-blue rattletrap. It took its place along with the St. Christopher medal, the Egyptian scarab and the laminated four-leaf-clover attached to the dash.

Isabel stared at it as it swayed back and forth with the movement of the car, she seemed mesmerized by it. As he waited for the light to change on Cahuenga Boulevard, he grabbed the silk cord and pulled it from its place to hand to her. He smiled and explained it was the symbol for luck. She looked back at him with eyes nearly the same color as the jade. She was a beautiful, obedient child. Tonatiuh would be pleased.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC - Please review if you're of a mind to.


	12. It Doesn't Blow, It Sucks

Blood Wind - Chapter 12

**Hey, bet you thought I wasn't going to come through on schedule, huh? Well, here it is. I trust you, oh literate and thoughtful ones to let me know if I've gotten too carried away with the trip down L.A.'s memory lane. Is this reading like some sort of warped travelog? Let me know.**

**Thank you, loyal readers and those who've just recently stumbled across this thing. Your reviews, alerts and favorites have kept me going through the long, coffee-soaked, nights at the keyboard.**

**Disclaimer: Do you honestly think that if I owned them, I'd be sitting here with a mangy cat draped over me instead of a handsome, blonde, Aussie guy?**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

It Doesn't Blow, It Sucks

As the bell on the steel reinforced glass door jingled at his entrance, she looked up and smiled at the lean, attractive man. She'd always been a sucker for guys with nice hair. This guy's sun-streaked locks were gorgeous. The rest of him wasn't bad either. She could see a heavy gold chain peeking out from the collar of his white cotton shirt. He didn't seem to be the kind of sleazeball who would wear gold chains. She'd always thought they looked out of place unless you were a rapper or some guy named Vinnie.

She cooed at the baby he held but stopped herself from asking why its mother wasn't around to take care of a tiny thing that looked almost newly minted. It really wasn't her business; besides, she only wanted to flirt with the guy. He was a little old for her and she was just going to look, she had no intention of touching.

She fantasized about being the temptress who could make a man leave his wife but, it was only that . . . a fantasy. It gave her a twinge of guilt to even think it. Maybe those nuns at St. Catherine's had finally made an impression on her. God knows her parents spent enough on her parochial schooling.

Anyway, she was only here to run the register and stock the shelves in the family store. She'd be escaping this miserable place next fall anyway. Her application had been accepted at Berkeley and it wouldn't be long before she would be away from her father's stupid, iron-clad, rules for the deportment of his only daughter and her mother's passive-aggressive manipulations. She could hardly wait.

The attractive man asked her advice on what to feed the baby. _That's odd, he should at least know a little more about taking care of his own kid. Where __was__ the kid's mother?_

She recommended the formula that seemed to be the most popular. Even as expensive as it was, the neighborhood women bought gallons of the stuff for their brats.

With a smile, she gave the man his total. He swiped his card through the reader and entered his pin number. The machine shortly beeped its approval. She handed him a pen to sign the copy she was to keep and quickly bagged his purchases. He smiled back and his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her the pen and the signed slip. Handing him him his copy, she blushed as their hands accidentally touched during the exchange. He politely thanked her, juggling the baby and the plastic sack as he walked away from the register.

_He's so gentle with the baby._ Perhaps, after she got her degree, she'd find someone like that. The bell jingled again and a swirl of leaves and bits of debris blew through the doorway as he exited.

_Fucking wind! _she muttered to herself as she went to fetch the broom and dustpan.

...

This part of 'the valley' was a flat, and to some, desolately urbanized part of the city. Dirt and grime were at home here in the tattered jumble of industry.

He pulled the beige Taurus into the gravel paved lot; coming to a stop in front of a World War II era quonset hut that sat in the midst of several others like it. The rusting metal structures formed a small, ragged industrial park.

Sitting between a building with a huge sign painted on its side advertising 'Used Tires - Cheap!' and a machine shop, this was the place his most precious belongings had landed after Aricele complained that too much of their living space had been overtaken by his obsession.

The corrugated buildings had long been shut for the evening. Notorious conductors of both heat and cold, businesses housed in them began work before dawn and concluded it by mid-afternoon, if not earlier, in the summer months.

Small dust-devils, glowing amber in the slanting afternoon light, skimmed across the empty parking lot.

Apizaco left the car running with the AC on as he got out of it to unlock the heavy padlock on the roll-up door. At one time an auto repair shop, the smell of heated, oil-soaked dirt and concrete greeted him. He strained against the grinding protest of the counterweight gears as the door traveled upward and a few hardy black widows scurried away from their nests in the cracked rubber moulding at the bottom.

Andres had always thought the shy spiders rather beautiful with their graceful legs and shiny, jet bodies. The distinct red hour-glass on their abdomens was only revealed if you overturned them. He wasn't without caution though. Their bite wouldn't necessarily kill you but it would make you wish you'd checked whatever you'd reached under before placing your hands there. Anything that had lain in one place outdoors for longer than a couple of days was fair game for the arachnids.

He stood waiting for the dense, oily air to disperse before returning to the idling car to pull it inside.

...

"Got it!" said Ortega, snapping shut his phone as they made their way back across the soft, sticky asphalt to the sedan in Parker Center's lot. The trip to Whittier hadn't been in vain after all. Lisbon's call had informed him of a possible hide-out in the valley.

He immediately diverted Lowry and Lisbon's team of Rigsby and VanPelt along with a full contingent of SWAT to check it out. If Apizaco was there, he knew they could take him but, in case he wasn't, Ortega wanted to be in on the end of this hunt. Killed or captured, Andres Apizaco was going down.

Though the sun had, once again, displayed one of the Santa Ana's only gifts in the form of a spectacular sunset, the temperature was still in the nineties. It didn't get full dark this time of year until nearly eight PM. Ortega thanked God this mess hadn't happened in December when it was pitch black by five-thirty.

He knew Apizaco's capture or death was just as important to Jane. The blonde man's easy smile hadn't made its appearance since the hospital. The consultant had been silent on the way back but, then, neither of them felt much like talking. The cold, hard lump of failure sat in their guts like a boulder.

"When is this fucking wind going to stop!" muttered Ortega as he shut his eyes to keep what seemed like half the dust in the county out of them as he felt the grit pelting his face.

"Shit!" he could hear Jane exclaim next to him in annoyance as he wasn't quite as successful at avoiding the blowing dirt.

_Fucking wind!_

_..._

The steps were the grandiose construction of a hopeful developer who, in the thirties, felt the brushy hills and orange groves below were ripe for a boom. The farsighted developer had taken advantage of the WPA as a resource for cheap labor and built the imposing flight on the hillside overlooking the city.

_Perfect, _thought Andres as he stood rocking the now quiet infant in his arms. The boy's dusky skin was flushed from the heat but he sucked contentedly on the bottle Andres held for him.

He'd provided the child a new blanket and clean diapers. The formula, the one the girl at the little tienda, (store), recommended, had warmed just fine on the dash of the Ford as it sat in the broiling parking lot. The stuff was expensive enough. He was glad the baby seemed to like it.

He'd even taken care to finish tying off and trimming the still attached umbilical cord and taped it neatly to the baby's belly.

The warrior had forgotten what it was like to hold a tiny baby. The scent of them; the soft, smooth skin. Babies were like a blank sheet of paper upon which the years would write their story. He shook himself . . . this child had another purpose; he mustn't forget.

He'd used the last of his money to pay for the Ford, so he had to card the purchase of baby supplies. He supposed they'd be able to track him down with it but, it didn't matter now anyway.

This child would be the savior of his people. It would all be over before the sun rose again.

...

At the edge of a verdant park in nearly the center of the city, these steps were one of nine sets of stairways in this area. They were the tallest in the city and were the longest continuous stairway without any obstruction or overhanging vegetation. There was a broad terrace at the top and from there, if one survived the climb, was a spectacular view of the park and the city beyond.

A hundred yards of meandering walkway along the ridge connected the flight of steps in the front to the slightly shorter stairway at the back of the steep hill where it ended at the rear parking lot.

They'd found a place of concealment on a wooded rise a short distance away where a small maintenance building perched on a concrete shelf carved into the hillside. It was a good vantage point from which to watch the terrace and the steps.

Just getting full dark, the moon was riding low over the San Gabriels. Another gift of the Santa Anas was to blow away the crud in the air so the inhabitants and tourists were witness to one of the prettier vistas; one pictured on post cards sent to Indiana, Ohio or wherever. The mountains weren't usually visible through the brown haze that covered L.A. like a dirty woolen blanket on most days.

Though outwardly calm, Jane felt like a layer or two of his skin had been peeled off exposing his nerve endings to the wind whose every breath over his body nearly made him flinch. He stood looking out from the concrete wall surrounding the maintenance building. Even without binoculars, the landing at the top of the steps was clearly visible. It felt nearly close enough to touch.

In spite of the heat, he shivered. All afternoon and into the evening he could hear the bruja's voice in his head . . . _Cuidado Angel. El Jaguar espeda. _It frightened him. He hoped this wasn't the prelude to another black-out; another walk-about he wouldn't remember in the morning. Lisbon would have him committed for sure.

The voice carried to him on the restless currents reminded him he had a job to finish before he could leave. By 'leaving', he assumed she meant dying.

The thought of his own death didn't bother him overmuch. He just didn't like the thought that it may hurt. He'd even tried to hasten it along a couple of times in the past.

As far as he was concerned, that stuff about a 'cry for help' in unsuccessful suicide attempts was a bunch of crap. He'd really wanted to not be here anymore . . . here without his family, there was nothing. There was nothing to keep him from floating away into oblivion.

Gradually, he'd stopped thinking about offing himself. It seemed like such a selfish thing to do.

Besides, who would be the one to find him? Cho, Rigsby, VanPelt . . . Teresa? Someone he didn't even know could be marked for life by finding a dead guy. People reacted in strange ways to such things.

One night, not too long ago, he'd flushed his stash of pills. Tonight, though, he wished he'd kept a couple of Ativan. He felt the wind caress his cheek. He shivered as the voice whispered again to him, _You can't leave yet, Angel. The jaguar waits._

...

They blinked against the wind doing its best to torture them as gritty eyes strained at the shadows of the pretty but poisonous oleander that lined the chain-link fence.

It grew like crazy all over the Southland. One could kill off the entire city and then some with ricin manufactured from its seeds. Sometimes, on nights like this, _That doesn't seem such like a bad idea somehow_, thought Jack Lowry; looking as though he'd been sucking on the world's largest lemon. The Santa Anas always put him in a bad mood.

His boss had always told him he needed to get laid during the winds and perhaps that would reverse the evil they seemed to bring out in him. Maybe Ortega was right. Perhaps a little time spent with the tall redhead would restore his sunny disposition. Agent VanPelt was nice to look at but, he could sense some sort of proprietary vibe coming from the big doofus with her. Lisbon wasn't bad either but, she could probably chew him up and spit him out. He really didn't like the feisty ones . . . too much work.

Here he was, leading a couple of the CBI's finest on a wild goose chase. Apizaco was long gone, probably over the border to Mexico. That weird, smart-ass consultant was a quack or worse - just plain crazy. He had no business giving the LAPD its marching orders. Well, _he _didn't actually give them, Ortega did . . . but still.

He sighed into the too dry, too warm night. _Getting laid was a damned good idea._

Rigsby and VanPelt followed Ortega's 2IC across the gravel yard toward the side door. Though the moon hadn't yet cleared the foothills, the arched tin building was silhouetted against the night sky. It cast a deep shadow on the nearly white gravel under their feet. Van Pelt hoped Apizaco was deaf as well as demented. There was no way to hide the crunching sound of their approach.

The desolate howl of a coyote from somewhere in the surrounding foothills added to the eerie feel of the night. Rigsby felt the sweat running down the middle of his back under the kevlar. He waited for everyone to maneuver into place before aiming a large foot at the weathered door. With a nod from Lowry, Rigsby's well-placed size13 exploded it inward in a shower of rotted wood. The law poured through the opening like salt through a funnel.

The beams of scopes and flashlights cut through the empty space as dust particles shimmered in their paths of illumination.

"Clear!" came a voice from the partitioned space in the corner that seemed to be an office of sorts. The rest of the large space was quickly searched and other than the small, furry, things that scurried away into the darkness beyond, there were no other mammals to be found.

"Ugh!" yelped Rigsby as he flicked a black shape off his shoulder, his skin erupting in goose-bumps. He hated spiders!

At that moment, someone found a light switch and the ancient overhead lamps flickered reluctantly into life.

The space was half filled with carefully labeled crates. Impossible to pronounce names like Teotihuacan and Huitzilopochtli along with various dates were neatly written on labels affixed to each one.

"He's, obviously been here." said Lowry, further startling Rigsby as the detective, coming silently from the direction of the office, was suddenly behind him.

_Fuck! _thought the agent who'd nearly leaped out of his skin,_ He must have taken lessons from that sneaky little bastard Jane._

"There's baby formula cans and disposable diapers discarded in there." said Lowry, unaware that there'd almost been the need to call EMT's to resuscitate one Detective Wayne Rigsby. "The office has a window mounted air conditioner and the room is still cooler than the rest of the place.

"At least he seems to be trying to keep the baby comfortable." said VanPelt

"For now." said both Lowry and Rigsby together, looking like towering bookends on either side of the redhead. It was rare for either man to be able to look someone in the eye without having to look downward to do so. They glanced at each other in annoyance.

VanPelt could sense the heightened level of testosterone in the stuffy air of the corrugated metal hut.

_Men! _she thought to herself.

...

Ortega had gone through another full pack of gum. Once again, he stood looking out at the stairway.

It was like being alone at the top of the world. He might have enjoyed the view if it wasn't for the psychotic, pseudo-Aztec warrior on the loose somewhere in his city.

_If that bastard gets anywhere near here . . . _he thought, feeling the comforting weight of the Berretta on his hip.

"So, what have you been up to lately?" came a voice from the inky shadows.

Ortega spun around, his hand automatically going toward his gun. "Jesus, Jane! You could have coughed or something! I think I swallowed my gum!" The jumpy detective took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart before it exploded from his chest.

He heard Jane laugh softly from the shadows. Ortega looked annoyed but not unkind as he seated himself next to the blonde man on the concrete bench installed against the wall of the small building.

The night comfortably enveloped them; neither man spoke for several minutes. The warm darkness would make any conversation seem more intimate . . . more thoughtful. One had to choose words carefully before releasing them into the restive air.

Protected from the surging breezes in the lea of the masonry wall that still radiated heat; the silence wasn't awkward - it was almost companionable.

Ortega carefully measured his thoughts before speaking them aloud. The blonde man was still something of an enigma. There was a distance around him; an unknowable gulf. His interior was surely unlike the glib, bright exterior he presented to the world; considering his past, how could it not be? He didn't know the man but, something about him was disturbingly familiar . . . his _pain_ was familiar.

Ortega made his mind up and cleared his throat as he gazed toward the steps. They were illuminated only by the incipient moonlight. Lights had never been installed due to the protests of the residents of the pricey, gentrified neighborhood that bordered them. Ortega was puzzled by that as well. Most of those residents had installed security lights bright enough to be seen from outer space.

"I know something of what you're going through." Ortega began slowly and softly. "My son was killed in a drive-by seven years ago."

Jane almost said, 'I'm sorry for your loss' but, it was such an automatic and empty thing to say. He'd said it to too many people in too many places over the last few of years. It wasn't right to use it here. He settled on, "I'm sorry. I know it's painful to bring it up."

"It shattered my world", Ortega continued as though he hadn't heard the other man. "It killed my wife and nearly killed me as well."

Jane sat quietly but turned toward him. The still dim light was just enough to see the sadness on the tanned face.

"She, Cecilia was her name, o.d.'d one night . . . a night like this actually, during the Santa Anas. I was at work - there's always a lot more to do during the winds."

He paused a moment before continuing, "I found her the next morning but it was too late. She uhh . . . she'd taken the entire bottle of pills the doctor prescribed for her after our son's murder. She just couldn't sleep. I don't think she slept more than a couple of hours a night."

Ortega inhaled and held it in for a moment before letting it out in a soft sigh, "She left a note apologizing to me and her family. She just didn't want to live without Steven."

The detective didn't even know if he should be telling this troubled man his story but, somehow, it felt right.

"After the funeral - the second one, I came to the conclusion that all of this pain was caused by the guy or guys who killed my son. I made it my life's work to find whoever it was and hunt them down and kill them. The legalities of it didn't matter to me."

"Sounds familiar." was all Jane quietly said.

"Thought it might." was the equally brief, quiet reply.

The wind moaned around them trying to capture and whisk away the painful words of remembrance.

"When I wasn't at work or working on my own trying to find the killer, I crawled into a bottle. It wasn't much of a life . . . was actually no life. After awhile, my friends and relatives pointed that out to me. I had people who cared about me and people I was responsible to and responsible for. I couldn't let them down, I couldn't leave them wondering if there was something they could have said or done that would change my mind . . . would fix me. So, I changed my ways. It wasn't easy, it's still not."

"Did you ever catch the murderer?"

"No but, I will . . . or maybe I won't; don't know for sure. I know that I can't let that person, that murderer, control me anymore. I know that he took two lives and I'm damned if I'll let him take three."

Neither man spoke again for several minutes. They just sat next to each other and stared out at the lights as the wind whispered and sighed around them.

"Mr. Jane?"

"Patrick, remember?" corrected Jane with a small smile.

Ortega turned to fully face the blonde man. "Patrick, you have people who care about you; people who would be more than a little upset if something happened to you. You have a responsibility toward them if you want to acknowledge it or not."

He didn't mention Lisbon's tears that night on the way to East L.A. He'd already been intrusive enough but, Jane couldn't be that dense, could he? He had to realize she cared for him.

_Sometimes the smartest people really are the dumbest _thought the detective as he turned his head and continued to stare outward toward the still deserted stairway_._

Just then the wind made its way around the building and blasted them with tiny stinging pellets of sand and dirt. They squeezed their eyes shut and brought their arms up in front of their faces protectively.

"Damn," said Ortega as Jane was trying to spit out the grit that found its way into his mouth. "This is supposed to die down by tomorrow night. If it doesn't, I think the city's just going to combust."

"I think I just swallowed a big chunk of the hillside." coughed and spat Jane as the surging air abated.

After a few more attempts to get the fine grit out of his teeth, Jane sat quietly again, his face thoughtful.

"I don't know if I can give it up. I don't think I'm capable of it. Everything that held me here was taken from me. He looked intently at Ortega, who'd now turned to face him again, eyes boring into the other man's; searching. He dropped his gaze after finding nothing that would give him an answer to some unknown question.

"I will find him and kill him, it's the only thing I have. It's the only thing that keeps _on _this earth."

With a start, Ortega recalled the words of the old woman that night . . . about the blonde man not not being 'of the earth'. He'd shrugged it off at the time (or thought he did) . . . it _was_ kind of creepy.

"You have other things to keep you here, Patrick. Maybe, someday, before you've succeeded in killing Red John or killing yourself in the process, you'll realize there are other reasons; other people to live for. I hope you do. You have a rare talent you need to share with the rest of us; something that will help you get back a little of what was taken. I know how hard it is, trust me. I know all too well . . . but, for now, you need to stay."

Neither man spoke after that as they sat side by side in silence; in darkness and wind.

"Well', said Ortega finally; standing up, brushing off his shirt and pushing his hair back by running his hand through it. "Time to catch the bad guys." and walked off toward the others gathered on the small terrace beside them.

Jane looked upward to see the crystalline sparkle in the clear dark sky. The wind had blown the impurities away and tonight they twinkled as stars should. Their cold light revealed the warm tears that made their way down his cheeks.

After awhile, he wiped his face with his sleeve, stood, dusted off his pants and went to join the others.

...

Andres gave the baby his second bottle of the evening. After a diaper change, the child had quieted and was now busily making his way through his meal.

The warrior had been watching the stairway since dark. Aside from the guy who tried to ascend it, (probably as some sort of masochistic exercise regimen), and had only gotten halfway, there'd been no one else around for the last two hours.

He stroked his finger across the baby's soft cheek. The boy reminded him of Andrew at that age. The coloring was different but, there was a similarity.

The thought popped into his head. _This is someone's son. What if it was Andrew? _How could he end the life of someone so innocent? So like his own child?

As soon as the tormenting thoughts caused doubt, he heard the voice of the sun god on the agitated wind, _'Be strong Jaguar. You cannot stop now, it would mean the end of our world! The end of the people of the sun! The boy must fulfill his destiny, the very reason for his birth. You must be strong and do what must be done. You cannot abandon them!'_

Tears ran down his face and dripped onto the soft blue cloth that wrapped the baby.

"Yes," he whispered back, "I know."

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC

The title references an old 'Saturday Night Live' bit you may be able to catch on reruns if you're lucky.


	13. The Angel and the Jaguar

Blood Wind - Chapter 13

**One more chapter to go before this thing can grind to a halt. Was going to make this the last one but, it was getting too long again and, besides, I must have a twisted need to torture you poor people. Saving a little more angst and blood for the last chapter. Don't hate me, or at least don't hate me enough to cause me pain. I'm a big chicken that way. I won't even eat hot peppers. I have no interest in food that hurts me.**

**Disclaimer: Followed the instructions in that creepy reference book. Lit all those candles; sacrificed two lawyers, an annoyingly perky aerobics instructor and a telemarketer . . . and they're still not mine! Darn.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

The Angel and the Jaguar

Lisbon ended the call with Ortega. She blew her hair out of her eyes with an exasperated puff.

The 405 was at a dead stop. The red glow of tail lights stretched as far as they could see before them. Almost a continuous glow, it looked like one of those rope lights people string up at Christmas.

To make things even worse, the air-conditioning in the rental car had conked out. Cho felt the sweat rolling down the back of his neck as he put the window back up.

He had a choice: they could either suffocate in the heat with the windows up or die of carbon monoxide poisoning from the hundreds of idling engines in this Godforsaken, barely mobile, parking lot.

They'd only moved about twenty feet in the last hour. He hated L.A.

"We're not even going to Parker Center, we're going to stake-out one of the stairways at Elysian Park. Jane thinks that's where Apizaco is going to take the baby.

"Where? Do we even know how to get there?" asked Cho, wishing Jane was here to tell them which taco-stand to turn at.

"Elysian Park, it's about twenty-five miles from here."

"May as well be on the moon." said her 2IC sourly, "We're never going to get out of this traffic jam."

"Don't be so pessimistic." said Lisbon. Though she was trying to sound positive, her voice seemed lacking confidence in their, eventual, escape from gridlock. A few minutes ago, their borrowed police radio advised of a gasoline tanker fire a couple of exits north of where they sat.

Ahead of them, in the distance, suddenly rose a huge fireball. A thick column of smoke billowed into the already molten sky as the flames lit it from below.

_This is what hell must look like, _thought Lisbon, a_t least maybe one imagined by Fellini._

Their borrowed radio crackled with the report of a tanker truck exploding under an overpass ahead. Fire department and HAZMAT were already on scene.

In the next lane, someone in an impossibly shiny black mustang cranked up the volume to absolute tooth-rattling level. The angry and profane words of a currently popular rapper blasted into the exhaust filled air.

"Great," muttered Cho "Now I really _am_ in hell."

...

The moonlight was bright enough to make the landscape a crisply contrasted photo; shadows deep black with well-defined edges bordering the blue/white objects that cast them.

Picking his way across the hillside wasn't particularly easy; especially while carrying something fragile and, at the same time, trying to keep himself from tumbling down the steep incline. He was glad he'd done a dry run last week in the daylight; staying silent as bushes and brush clawed at his bare skin.

His nana's old trick had worked. The baby slept peacefully thanks to the small amount of whiskey he'd added to the last bottle of formula. He knew people would be horrified but it was the only way to keep his tiny charge from giving them away if they were being watched. After all, his mother and probably his abuelita (little grandmother) herself had survived it.

Using the credit card was a stupid thing to do but, there was no other way. The baby needed to eat and letting him remain wrapped in the soiled towel just wasn't right.

He stifled a curse when a needle sharp thorn bit into his bare thigh. The hillside was covered in chaparral, manzanita and barberry. He slowed his ascent. Even though his pain could be of no consequence now, he concentrated on trying to recognize and avoid the more malevolent foliage around him. He was almost there.

The baby slept on.

...

The detective's earpiece crackled. There was something going on at one of the stairways to the east of them. Someone had been spotted picking their way through the brush on the hillside.

_This could be it! _thought Ortega. _Who else would be stupid enough to wander around in these rough, snake infested hillsides in the dark?_

Lisbon and Cho were already there. Returning too late to rendezvous with the rest of the task force, they'd volunteered to back up the coverage on the Lucretia Stairway.

Surrounding the park, were nine of these stairways. Coverage was thin. Along with those watching from vantage points on the hillsides were those assigned to the interior of the park itself and the entrances to the various parking areas as well as the streets around them.

Ortega was reluctant to leave his post but ached to get his hands on the cold-blooded bastard wreaking havoc on his turf. There'd already been at least a couple of accidental shootings. Somebody had nailed their teenage daughter's horny boyfriend as he'd climbed through her bedroom window a couple of nights ago. The kid would, thankfully. survive but with the hard-won lesson that like the song says; love does, indeed, hurt.

The overworked 911 operators were fielding torrents of frantic calls from those who: 'heard a noise downstairs', "out in the yard, 'at the window', etc. They dispatched patrol officers all over the city like carroms bouncing off the edges of the game table. The city was a hysterical mess.

Lisbon's voice sounded in his ear, barking orders and requesting additional backup. She and Cho were the only team staking out that location. Ortega sent the two patrolmen who'd been watching the steps with he and Jane to assist her.

Jane looked at him quizzically as the others rushed off. Ortega beckoned him to follow but, the consultant just shook his head and re-took his seat on the bench.

"Lisbon just radioed they're pursuing a guy carrying a bundle across the hillside to the east of here. Let's go!." ordered the agitated detective as Jane made not the slightest move to comply.

"Not him." said Jane evenly.

"How do you know? Who else would be wandering around naked across a probably rattler infested hillside in the dark?"

_Naked?_

In the bright moonlight, Jane locked eyes with Ortega and shook his head. "I have to stay here."

"How do you know for sure?" asked the detective running his hand through his hair in frustration.

"I just know."

"I repeat, Patrick, _how do_ you know?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just take my word. You can join the others if you feel I'm full of it but, leave me a gun."

"Your serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Do you even know how to use a gun?"

"Point and pull the trigger right? I'll figure it out fairly fast or I'll be joining the other 'gifts' to Tonatiuh."

"Shit!. said Ortega as he once again sat beside the consultant on the warm bench.

...

Almost there. He'd not seen anyone watching but he'd been pretty busy trying not to slide down the hillside into the park below. The landscape was lit nearly as bright as day. The moon was almost overhead. He'd have to hurry.

The heavy medallion slapped against his bare chest as his foot failed to find solid purchase in the crumbling dirt. He clamped his mouth shut, trying not to call out as he barely stopped his fall, going painfully to his knees to keep from tumbling on top of his precious cargo.

Almost there.

The baby stirred in his arms.

...

Suddenly, below and to the west of them, came an almost inaudible cry. Both men stood as one to strain eyes and ears toward its direction. It was just the one brief sound that the wind had pushed toward them.

"Cat?" asked Ortega, turning to Jane who was focused on the hillside below as well.

"Maybe." answered the blonde man peering intently into the darkness. "There!" he exclaimed in a whisper as he pointed toward a flash of reflected moonlight.

"It's him." said Jane calmly though the adrenaline had begun its surge and his heart just shifted into fifth gear.

"Let's go!" Ortega whispered, reaching down to his ankle to get the back-up gun he kept in the holster there.

Jane looked startled as the small twenty-two was thrust into his hands. He took it uncertainly as Ortega said, "Close enough and in the right zone, it'll kill whoever you hit with it but, it's not going to come to that." he said, determination the dominant note in his statement.

"Point and shoot, right?" swallowed Jane, his mouth suddenly dry as the curled leaves skipping and rolling across the concrete.

"Take the safety off first."

"Oh."

They swiftly made their way back along the nearly invisible dirt path that lead up the hillside to the terrace. In the daylight it was a quick, easy stroll but, at night, not so much. Jane nearly took a header as he tripped over a trailing tree root and barely kept from falling and taking the detective with him as he caught onto his arm to regain his balance.

Ortega knew this was mostly up to him. Actually, he just hoped Jane would keep it together and stay out of the way at least. This, obviously, wasn't the consultant's area of expertise.

The wind danced around them; skipping along to taunt and tease; trying to distract them from what may lay ahead.

...

This was the end of his quest. He'd reached the terrace where it would all end and he could rest; his people once again safe.

The baby seemed weightless as he placed it gently at the top of the step.

As it flowed over his body, the wind dried the shine of sweat from his skin. It whipped at the roughly woven fabric of his loincloth and the edges of the light blanket that wrapped the child.

He drew the knife from its sheath on his belt. Back in the quonset hut, he'd honed it carefully. The blade was sharp enough to skim through flesh without any resistance; only be a quick flash of pain and then it would be over.

He had no need to collect the vial of blood this time. The others were a promise, this was the actual fulfillment. His time on earth wouldn't be for naught. He'd failed his men on that Godforsaken rock-pile. He'd failed Aricele and the children. He _wouldn't_ fail the sun god.

He took the medallion from his neck; wincing as its chain caught in his hair. He pulled it free, a few strands still wrapped around the yellow metal links.

The wind seemed to increase its speed and frenzy in anticipation. He carefully laid the golden symbol with its inset blood-red stone onto the soft blanket that wrapped the chosen one.

The child stirred slightly; perhaps in a dream? Andres wondered what babies may dream of. Their lives hadn't yet been full enough of experiences and memories from which to draw. He hoped the dream was a pleasant one.

He began the chant; reciting the familiar words of blood, sacrifice and redemption this one last time as he raised the knife over his head, its blade reflecting the cold moon suspended in the black, limitless, sky.

The wind surged and moaned around him. He could hear it speak with Tonatiuh's voice. _Now, Jaguar! Save your people! You must do this now!_

...

"Police! Drop the knife!" rang out behind him.

The warrior whirled to see two men standing a few feet away, one of them pointing a gun at the center of his chest. The other only holding it loosely at his side.

"Drop it right now and step away from the baby!" the voice commanded.

Apizaco hesitated then, lowering the blade, stepped away from the sleeping child.

"Drop it!" warned the voice again, the man who was holding the gun on him stepped closer.

Then, in a underhand movement almost too fast to see, the blade flashed in the moonlight almost simultaneously with a sharp report and the flash from the end of the gun barrel. Both warriors crashed to the concrete and lay still.

...

Eyes closed, he lay panting on the ground. The impact of the bullet had been like the kick of a mule; spinning him downward to collide with the walkway.

He could hear an alarmed cry but, instead of the quick footsteps going toward the downed man, they went toward the baby.

Opening his eyes, he saw a blonde man bending over the child, a small gun held at his side as though almost forgotten.

The warrior's hand moved toward his belt to find the small, narrower knife meant to taste only his own blood after this final task was complete.

...

Looking down at the two men sprawled on the ground, he couldn't see any movement. Blood, a black trail in the moonlight, slowly inched away from each body, threatening to mingle into one as the viscous edges crept toward a low place in the concrete.

"Ortega!" Yelled Jane as he stepped away toward the quiet bundle at the edge of the top step.

There was movement beside to him. He felt something brush against him. Gasping, he lurched away, stumbling over Ortega's prone body. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered away down the steps. The sound growing fainter as it bounced along toward the bottom.

He hadn't even felt the blade slice through clothing and skin. He only looked down when he felt the wetness. He stayed frozen in place, transfixed by the sight of his own blood splatting onto the walkway . . . _there was so much of it._

It was as though the visual cue awoke the pain sensors in his body and then, it hurt . . . a lot.

Jane hadn't even seen the man rise from the ground but, hand clamped over his bicep, Apizaco now stood before him. A dark ribbon trailed slowly down his arm to drip from the tip of the narrow blade in his hand.

"Give me the baby!" he demanded in a strong, clear voice.

"No!" answered Jane shakily, his voice sounding not nearly as fierce or strong as the voice of the man holding the knife.

"Tonatiuh commands it!"

"Well, Tonatiuh can go jump into Echo Park Lake!" said Jane with some conviction of his own as he backed away from the mostly naked man standing in front of him.

"You're 'the other', aren't you?" hissed the Jaguar, eyes narrowing at the man now holding the child.

"I'm the one who's going to keep you from killing this baby, if that's what you mean."

They stood, eyes locked on one another, the air swirling around them.

"The wind told me of you." said the warrior in a quieter but, somehow, no less threatening tone as he sized up the blonde man standing only a few feet away. _He doesn't really look like anyone to be worried about._

"You, I take it, are El Jaguar? The wind told me about you too." said Jane calmly, still managing, somehow, to sound unafraid while stalling for time; hoping to hear the sound of the cavalry coming to his rescue. Back-up had been hastily requested by Ortega as they'd scurried up the trail from the outbuilding. If there was anyone coming to the rescue, it would have to be those not rushing toward Lisbon's location on the other side of the park.

"I am the protector of my people. I am on a journey to save them." was the quiet statement in strangely stilted cadence; spoken with frightening conviction.

"Your wife says enough with the journey already, Andres. She wants you to come home." Jane was beginning to slowly inch away from the scary guy with the knife. His side now felt as though it was on fire.

"I have no wife!" said Apizaco

"But, you do, Andres. Her name is Aricele. She's quite beautiful. She's worried about you and wants you to give up this quest and come home to her and your sons."

There was a hesitation this time before Apizaco repeated, "I have no wife."

"You have a beautiful wife and three beautiful children, remember?" insisted Jane. "They need you." he said, taking another cautious half-step away from the man whose bare skin shone in the moonlight. "They miss you. They need you." he repeated.

"I have to complete this, it's my duty!" thundered Apizaco, his voice taking on the tiniest hint of defensiveness.

"Your duty is to your family, just as your duty was to your country." said Jane still stalling but trying to break through to whatever sanity the man may still retain. It was certainly a longshot.

There was still no sound of rescuers from beyond the bright glow of the pathway.

"My family is my people! I have to do as commanded by the Tonatiuh to save them."

"Tonatiuh is wrong. It's wrong to kill the innocent, Andres. You know that."

"ENOUGH, Angel!" thundered the Jaguar, eyes widening in anger at the disrespect toward his diety.

_How did this crazy man know what the bruja called me?_ wondered Jane.

Then, Apizaco, sounding more curious than anything else asked. "That is your name, verda'? Angel?" once again the 'g' sound was replaced with an 'h' in the name. "You are 'the other' the wind warned me of."

He stood waiting for Jane to confirm his otherworldly identity.

The consultant knew if he did confirm it, he'd be the next blood donor on Tonatiuh's list. Still stalling, he answered, "I haven't been called angel since I was three, no, make that two. You know how the 'terrible twos' are . . . but no, I'm certainly no angel." he smiled, At this point, though, it may have appeared more as a ghastly grin.

"You are the one I was warned of . . . 'El Angel de la Ventana'. I can't let you live. All will be lost if I do!." This with calm, cold, conviction he said, "You must die!"

Clutching the baby tightly to his chest and spinning quickly away from the Jaguar; Jane yelled over his shoulder. "You'll have to catch me first!" as he began a sprint down the walkway toward the back side of the hill.

He was fast, he knew it, and the extra boost of adrenaline was like adding rocket fuel to his system. He just hoped 'El Jaguar' wasn't faster, the guy looked to be in excellent shape.

The first few yards were easy. He'd actually created some space between himself and his pursuer. He could barely hear the pounding of bare feet behind him.

His body was tiring more quickly than it should have. Even the baby was beginning to feel heavy in his arms. The burning feeling on his side was now a raging fire. He knew he was bleeding but he couldn't stop to check. Besides, he didn't really want to know if his insides were in danger of being on the outside.

He vaguely realized he could get farther faster if he could manage to run in a straight line but, that simple thing seemed enormously difficult to do at the moment. He hoped Ortega's bullet had taken a lot of the speed out of Apizaco.

The consultant's head began to reel. His eyes didn't want to track properly and the ground seemed to move beneath his feet. _Great, an earthquake_, he thought though he knew even his luck wasn't _that_ bad. He suspected it was probably something to do with blood loss.

Hearing the footfalls coming closer, he tried to increase his speed but his body refused to cooperate. Managing a few more staggering steps before landing painfully on his still scabby knees; he struggled to rise again. Then, the Jaguar was behind him.

Jane realized they'd nearly reached the back steps. His unfocused vision told him they weren't as imposing as the front steps and had several switchbacks and landings before reaching the bottom of the hill. Too his horror, he realized there must be at least the requisite number of two-hundred and sixty though, he didn't really have time to count them right now.

"So, Angel . . . " said the slightly breathless voice behind him. "This is where it ends for you. I'm sure Tonatiuh will be happy to have your blood as well."

Apizaco moved cautiously around his gasping prey; coming to stand in front of him.

"Probably not" gasped Jane. "If he's looking for purity, I'm afraid I fall a little short on that requirement."

Apizaco appeared to smile then said, "No matter, he'll be happy to have the blood of two warrior's tonight", then he paused, "No, make that three . . . as well as the chosen one. Your blood will be next, then the child, then . . . ", he didn't finish the sentence. I've already killed the other."

It suddenly dawned on the warrior that, perhaps, this man may not be the one he'd been warned of. Though he didn't look particularly dangerous; with his golden hair glowing in the moonlight, he certainly looked like El Angel. He looked like the being in the dream the sun god had sent him as warning. He was 'the other' . . . wasn't he? Maybe, he'd already dispatched 'the other' when he'd killed the man with the mustache. It didn't really matter, the sun god would be happy.

Jane clutched the infant even tighter to his chest; tight enough that it squawked in protest. He suddenly noticed the shadows under them had grown longer. The moon wasn't directly overhead now.

"You know, you can't sacrifice the boy now. The moon's begun its descent. It's too late. You fucked up." said Jane almost gleefully.

Apizaco appeared startled as he looked first upward toward the sky and then down at the incongruous watch fastened to his wrist. The device was jarring against his current mode of dress . . . or lack of it.

There was sudden, complete silence. Even the wind stilled; holding its heated breath as if awaiting the Jaguar's next words.

"Then, I'll have to start over. There are more babies. First, I will appease the sun god with the blood of an Angel - a warrior angel, a spirit . . . seems worthy of a sacrifice to me."

"I wish I could say I was flattered." croaked 'the spirit'; mouth even drier than before. "You'll let the baby live then?" sounding calm though his heart pounded like a jackhammer against his breastbone.

"I have no need for the child now. The time for the infant has passed. You, Angel, and your friend will have to suffice for tonight."

Jane thought the whole thing rather ironic. At one time, he'd actually thought of drawing a blade across his own jugular. Now, here was someone willing to do it for him. Life can be funny sometimes. He almost smiled, attributing his strange reaction to blood loss and shock.

Gently, he set the now squirming but still quiet infant on the walkway; barely managing to keep his balance as he leaned forward. He looked down at the dark spatters on the concrete. _Is all this blood mine?_

"The baby won't be harmed?" he asked, blinking his eyes and swaying slightly; seeking reassurance from the warrior standing so still in the moonlight. Standing as though he'd been there, a fugitive from time itself, for the last ten centuries.

"You have my word." answered the warrior.

Still on his knees, Jane slowly straightened, looked into the glittering madness of the eyes of the Jaguar and nodded. The blade of the knife reflected brightly in the silver light.

Sighing softly, resignedly, the Angel turned his head and closed his eyes.

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

TBC

PLEASE REVIEW! Even if you just want to yell at me for being so evil.


	14. Blood Rite

Blood Wind - Chapter 14

**Lovely readers, this long, strange, trip has finally come to an end. I hope you enjoyed this story. Thank you so very much for your support and kind words as I, too slowly, slogged through it. Fuzzy kittens and chocolate bunnies to all those who took the time to review and add to their favorites**

**It's been fun, (when I wasn't tearing my hair out).**

**Disclaimer: I can put them back now that I've had my way with them. They were never mine and I never made any money from this endeavor. Only the plot, most of the dialog, descriptive phrases and OC's may be mine. Not sure how this actually works but, it's too late now.**

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

Blood Rite

She could see a body moving cautiously through the brush, it was slowly traveling toward the stairway.

"Cho!" she whispered, "See him?"

"Yeah, he's naked." answered the stoic agent without any surprise in his voice but, that was his usual way of speaking. Lisbon had always thought the man's hair could spontaneously burst into flame and he wouldn't get excited, raise his voice or anything at all that would indicate how he really felt about such an extraordinary and painful occurrence.

If the he kept moving at the same angle, he'd reach the steps just above the second landing from the top. She clicked the safety off her gun and heard her 2IC do the same as they waited for the suspect to step out of the brush onto the steps.

Though she had no doubt she and Cho were more than capable of taking him down, she clicked the mic switch and quietly requested back-up from whoever was available. There was no sense taking chances. L.A.'s most famous serial killer since 'The Nightstalker' who'd run amok nearly thirty years ago wasn't getting away. She'd do whatever it takes to make sure he didn't.

They could now see him clearly. He was stark naked and he carried a bundle clutched to his side.

"Stop! Police!" she yelled, bracing her stance as she held her gun pointed squarely at the pale skin of the man's chest.

"Awk!" let out the naked man in alarm as he spun and took a step.

"I wouldn't!" warned Cho who'd now appeared before their suspect; gun held with arms locked in a classic shooter's stance. Lisbon had the fleeting thought that if she was a perp who'd suddenly spotted her second-in-command with his dark, flat-eyed, stare drawing down on her, she'd probably wet her pants.

Their suspect quickly threw both hands in the air, dropping the bundle he carried. There was no sound from it as it plopped in the dirt.

"On your knees, NOW! Hands behind your head!" she ordered

The man promptly hit the dirt and laced his hands behind his shaggy head. He'd obviously been through this drill before. _How did he grow such a thick beard so quickly? No one had said anything about a beard; long hair maybe but, no facial hair._

"Identify yourself! What's your name?"

"Uhh . . . Buh . . . Bill?" stuttered a voice in a rusty squeak.

"Bill what?" demanded Cho

"Just Bill . . . you know, like Cher, Beyonce . . . uh, Madonna?"

"OK, Just Bill, what are you doing here?" demanded Lisbon still holding her gun pointed at the center of the man's chest.

"I, uhh . . . I was getting ready to take a bath. You know . . . in the lake."

Lisbon raised her lip in disgust at the thought of bathing in the algae crusted, duck infested puddle that Angelinos had the balls to call a 'lake'.

"What's in the bundle?" she asked without revealing any more of her thoughts on bathing in 'the lake'.

"Jus . . . just my clothes. They're clean, I didn't want to put them on until I took a bath. It's not sanitary."

"Put your pants on NOW!" barked Lisbon, her flashlight shining into the bleary eyes and sun-weathered face. This definitely wasn't Apizaco.

"Can't." whined Just Bill.

"Why's that?" asked Cho in curiosity more than anything else.

"The police. They won't like it, I'll get into trouble."

"We _are_ the police! PUT YOUR DAMNED PANTS ON!" ordered Lisbon, almost out of patience and with a WTF look on her face.

"No, not _police_ police, clothes police." said Just Bill, sounding miffed they didn't know about this 'other' branch of law enforcement. _Don't these people ever communicate with each other? _wondered the naked man.

"Oh, them." said Lisbon nodding gravely; resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"They're really strict about that. They won't let you get dressed at all some times." whined Just Bill in earnest dissatisfaction with the arm-of-the-law that existed only in his mind.

"I'm sure they'll let it go this time." It was nearly impossible not to smile, if not to down right collapse in giggles but, she never did that kind of stuff anyway; too girly. She did kinda fell bad though, the man was so earnest in wanting to do the right thing and not run afoul of the law, imaginary though it may be.

"It's not safe to wander around in the dark without clothes. There's snakes and stuff." said Cho in his normally serious tone, opting into the argument to get the man to put on his pants. He'd already seen enough naked guys for this trip.

"Snakes won't bother me." said Just Bill, proudly. "We're brothers."

"Oh, OK." answered Lisbon, not even wanting to pursue this statement any further. _Whatever floats his boat . . . as long as he just puts on some fucking pants!_

"They're snakes, you probably can't trust them." she said "Just put your pants on anyway. I'm not telling you again!" she warned, now _completely_ out of patience. Why did she even bother arguing with someone whose lamp, obviously, wasn't plugged into an outlet?

"Give me something in writing first." demanded the still nude man, "You know, in case they stop me and ask why I put on my clean clothes without taking a bath first."

Cho reached into his shirt pocket for his pen and the small notebook he always had on him. The light was bright enough to actually write without needing additional illumination. He quickly scribbled something, tore off the sheet and handed it to their now, almost surely, former suspect.

They'd have to turn him over to LAPD anyway for indecent exposure. Maybe he'd get a bed and a real shower out of it. _One he doesn't have to share with ducks_, thought Lisbon.

After carefully reading the note, his mouth moving with each word, Just Bill said "You have to sign it and date it."

Cho exasperatedly grabbed back the paper and added the date then signed 'Sincerely, Agent Kimbal Cho, C.B.I.' to the bottom of the piece of paper that read 'Please excuse Bill from the bath before pants requirement for tonight.' and handed it back to the naked man who waited expectantly for his permission to forego bathing before donning clean clothing.

The Asian guy looked like someone who'd have the authority to excuse him; he certainly hoped so. He didn't want to argue with those people all night like he sometimes had to. Last time, their argument had gotten too loud and someone had complained. He'd been run out of that nice place he'd found behind the hedges of that new condo complex just off Wilshire Boulevard.

Just Bill took the small sheet of lined paper and, once again, inspected it carefully before nodding in satisfaction and then bending to retrieve the bundle at his feet.

Lisbon carefully avoided the scenery of a naked, bent over suspect by looking across to her 2IC who'd not even cracked a smile . . . _damn him._

Just then, her earpiece crackled and a voice she recognized as Ortega's was requesting back-up. He sounded as though he'd been walking fast or actually running. She heard, _"Shit, watch it!"_ and then a mumbled apology from someone who sounded suspiciously like Jane.

The signal faded out, then in again. Ortega had kept his mic open, there was more sound of movement and then,_ "Police! Drop the knife!"_ then a moment later,_"Drop the knife and step away from the baby!"_ a slight pause then _"Drop it!"_ warned Ortega's voice again.

Cho and Lisbon both turned at the same time to sprint toward the detective's location. She knew he and Jane were at the Elysian Steps on the other side of the park. They nearly ran over the people responding to her initial call for back-up. Now, a thundering herd of law enforcement, they all ran back down the steps to sprint across the grassy expanse surrounding the lake.

Then, the crack of a gunshot came from across the lake, bouncing and echoing off its flat surface. The sound also loudly popping through their earpieces.

...

Ortega slowly came to. His head hurt like a bitch and he could feel more pain from somewhere on his chest.

He raised his head to look around and saw no one else, just a large knife that lay a couple of feet away.

With difficulty, he sat up. The night spinning around him momentarily. This felt like the worst binge he'd ever been on. His stomach threatened to expel its contents and he swallowed several times trying to keep his last meal where it belonged.

Looking down at himself, he saw the dark stain covering nearly the entire front of his polo shirt.

"Dammit!" he muttered at the sight of the blood, his blood. His head began to spin once again; the sky and earth changing places for a second before regaining their customary locations.

There was no sign of the baby, Jane or Apizaco. The Berretta still lay where it had landed in the dirt just off the walkway. In the brightness of the moon overhead, it was easy to find.

After two unsuccessful tries to stand, he finally managed to stay on his feet. The receiver had fallen out of his ear and was dangling from its coiled wire down the back of his neck. He tucked it back where it belonged and could hear a woman's voice calling his name. It was Lisbon, trying to get him to respond.

He spied the dark droplets trailing down the walkway. There seemed to be two distinct patterns, one much heavier than the other.

"Still in pursuit of possibly wounded suspect." he wheezed, "Traveling west on Elysian Steps walkway toward back parking lot. Need back-up . . . bad!"

_"Copy!"_ came Lisbon's voice as well as Lowry's who sounded as though he was running.

_"Almost to rear parking lot. Be there within five."_ came his 2IC's voice through the earpiece.

_"Heading your way across the park."_ came Lisbon's also sounding as though she was running.

"Copy." he answered, "Still in pursuit."

Ortega knew Lowry would have to circle around the hill to get to the rear parking lot and then take another few minutes to begin ascending the hill. It would be at least five minutes before anyone got here. Lisbon's team was even farther away.

Staggering slightly, he followed the blood trail, droplets like black bread crumbs pointing the way toward the suspect and probably the consultant as well. One of them was losing a lot of blood; too much to get very far. He knew he'd winged Apizaco as he went down but he didn't know how badly. He hoped Jane was the one leaving the more widely spaced splats on the cement pathway.

Following as fast as he could; he hoped they stayed on the walkway. In spite of the cliche'd images in the old westerns on T.V., he wasn't Tonto. He couldn't follow much of a trail across dirt, weeds and grass; even under the bright light of a full moon. Maybe it's because he's only part Indian? he smiled to himself. _Wow, blood loss does weird things to your head_, he thought, trying to concentrate on the blurring path in front of him.

Spikes of pain shot through his head with each step but, there was no time to give into it now. Failure wasn't one of his meager options. Keeping that monster from killing the baby and now, probably, Jane as well, was the only thing on his mind . . . well, that, and capturing that mother-fucker or blowing him to hell if he harmed that baby.

Ahead of him, on the pathway, he could see a standing figure, its back toward him. It was Apizaco and he was nearly naked. Light reflected off his skin, making the scene even more surreal as he appeared to glow under the full moon. A dark rivulet trailed down his arm toward the hand that held a narrow bladed knife.

Beyond Apizaco, he could see someone on the ground, it had to be Jane but he didn't see the baby anywhere. He slowed his steps and approached without sound; the Berretta held before him with both hands.

Seeing them more clearly as he came closer; Jane was on his knees looking defiantly upward. There was an exchange of words but the voices were too soft to make out what they were saying.

He saw Jane nod and then close his eyes and turn his face away, seeming to tilt his head to expose his throat.

...

This wasn't the way he'd thought it would end . . . as a sacrifice to a god he didn't recognize. Even though he had no belief in a supreme being of any sort , (or an afterlife), he still hoped, somehow, Grace was right . . . he'd see Angela and Charlotte again.

The night had gone completely still. The wind had ceased its restless wandering.

A shadow fell across his eyelids as he felt the Jaguar move to stand above him. His heart made his whole body vibrate to its frantic, thudding rhythm. He hadn't said goodbye to Lisbon but, she'd be OK . . . wouldn't she? She was so strong. She'd been light and warmth in the cold, dark void that had been his life since Red John had destroyed it. Red John . . . somehow, he didn't seem so large a figure now.

If only he had a few more minutes to tell her. Now, she'd never know.

The shadow shifted.

He hoped it wouldn't hurt.

...

Apizaco leaned forward with the blade. There was no time to shout a warning to drop it, no time to identify himself; the Berretta spoke for him.

The warrior's head snapped forward as the lead missle entered the back of his skull and exploded out the other side. His body toppled forward to land on top of Jane in a tangled, messy, heap.

...

Suddenly, there was a sharp crack and something wet and warm splattered across his face and something heavy crashed down on top of him, pinning him beneath it.

"Jane!" he heard Ortega's voice as he struggled against whatever pressed him to the concrete.

"Patrick, talk to me dammit!" The detective sounded almost like Lisbon, at least the words anyway. He felt the weight pushed off him and Ortega's concerned face hovered over him. In the detective's arms was a now squalling infant wrapped in a spattered blanket.

"My hero?".

"Bet your ass!" smiled Ortega tiredly.

Squinting to clear his vision, Jane could see a large, dark stain behind the squirming bundle clutched to the detective's chest.

"A little late to the ceremony, weren't you?" Jane managed to croak out.

"Sorry, had some bleeding to do before I could rescue your sorry ass." answered Ortega as he eased himself down next to where Jane lay. The Jaguar warrior's body lay in a cooling heap on the other side of them.

"You look like shit but, join the club." wheezed the consultant. "Baby OK?"

"Yeah, fine, still kinda sleepy. Hey, you did good . . . Angel." smiled the detective as the sound of pounding footsteps came closer.

"Told you, Lisbon's gonna take exception to that name." Just then, Ortega's face was replaced by the face of the woman of which he spoke, her luminous green eyes full of worry.

The baby seemed to rouse and cry in earnest, displaying the strength of its tiny lungs. Ortega gingerly handed the child to VanPelt who'd also, miraculously, appeared beside them. She kneeled to gently take the child and cradle him in her arms; an expression on her lovely face to rival anyone's depiction of the Madonna.

"Jane, you OK?" he heard Lisbon's voice over the wailing of the unhappy infant.

"Sort of."

"Take it easy, we're getting help for you and Detective Ortega, it'll be here any minute."

"Not going anywhere." he wheezed

He felt a warm hand grasp his cold one and shivered, marveling at how quickly the temperature of the night had dropped.

More hurried footsteps approached. There were new voices around him. He didn't look away from Lisbon's eyes. His eyes stayed locked on hers as though she might disappear into the moonlight; an ethereal vision he'd only hallucinated.

He felt hands on him and heard the crackle and tearing sound of someone hurriedly opening packets. Somebody had pulled open his shirt and was cutting off the windbreaker.

_No great loss, _he thought; his mind having a hard time trying to keep a grasp on his situation_, It was butt-ugly anyway._

Terse instructions and numbers he should know the meaning of, but which didn't sound familiar, flew around him. Something pressed against his side. The pain made him cry out.

A voice he didn't recognize said, "It's OK buddy, we'll get you fixed up. Just relax."

_Relax? Not if you keep pressing on my side._

He felt another someone patting up and down the inside of his forearm and then something cold on his skin and the bite of a needle.

_Her eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes. He was going to lose himself in them. Nothing could ever harm him there._

"What am I going to take exception to? Jane . . . stay with me!. What am I going to take exception to?" Lisbon's voice faded in and out. It seemed to be coming from no place in particular even though he knew she held his hand.

"Ask Ortega." he mumbled as the night finally closed around him.

...

The ambulance ride wasn't even a memory. He'd woken up in a narrow bed. There was the usual beeping and clicking he associated with accommodation in the I.C.U. He didn't feel any pain. At least he was getting some good drugs out of this.

He thought he heard a voice. He listened closer and it said, "Todo esta bien, su compadre esta bien, el nino esta bien. Ahora usted puede estar. (All is well. Your friend and brother-in-arms is well. The boy is well. You can rest now.) In a soft murmur, it continued: The city is better now but you still can't leave. There is someone near who needs you. Someone for whom you'll be willing to stay. Rest, Angel." He felt someone softly stroke his cheek.

Then it was dark again.

...

This is just one too many times! she thought as she stared down at the peaceful face of her consultant. Several bags hung from the multi-hooked chrome stand next to the bed. At least one of them held something dark, dark red. It was strange how bright blood looked when flowing out of a body and how dark it looked when contained in plastic.

Several lengths of clear tubing led to the IV catheters in his arms and one that disappeared under the neck of his gown to a place just under his collarbone.

This is getting old., she mumbled to herself as she took his frigid hand in hers, rubbing it to try and impart some warmth into pale flesh, even though he probably couldn't even feel it right now.

The beeping of the heart monitor, usually so annoying in a quiet room, was actually comforting in the glass-walled enclosure. He'd come through surgery well enough but, still hadn't yet woken. The sound assured her that, despite, looking like death not quite warmed over, he still lived.

She studied the pale face; still slightly peeling from sunburn. It actually had a bluish tinge to it in the hollows under his eyes and below his cheekbones. She knew he'd already looked tired and pale even before landing in the hospital. She should have left him in Sacramento but, no matter how exhausted, he probably wouldn't have agreed to stay behind.

She was just so damned tired of worrying. Tired of always having to make the extra effort to ensure he got enough sleep, consumed something other than chocolate bars and gallons of tea. It was like having a five-year-old . . . no, make that a four-year-old; he certainly whined like one.

Someday . . . maybe it would be different. She hoped so but wasn't going to hold her breath. They'd become even closer over time. They actually confided in each other . . . well, as much as either of them ever confided in anyone.

This man for whom she cared too much was, possibly, damaged beyond repair. Cho had said he'd never be 'OK' and her quiet but insightful senior agent was usually correct in his opinions - when he bothered to share them.

The wall Jane kept around himself may never be actually torn down but, she'd breached it a couple of times. Oh, so very briefly, when he'd taken a break from his hyper-vigilance but, it was painful . . . for both of them; like standing close to a fire that burned too bright, too hot to stay near for very long. He was frighteningly intelligent; even brilliant but, emotionally, just a frightening mess.

She took in a breath and held it for a moment, staring down at a face she thought beautiful, had always thought beautiful from the first moment she'd first seen him. She wasn't naive. She was too old and too jaded for that. She'd kick his ass if it was necessary and he knew she had no qualms about doing so.

He stirred in sleep and softly moaned as her hand smoothed stray curls from his forehead. She kept her vigil as the man in the bed slept on.

Maybe 'OK' would never be but, maybe, she'd take what she could get . . . whatever he could give. For now, it might be just enough.

...

When next he woke, he managed to actually open his eyes. Blinking several times before he would focus, he saw the form of someone next to him.

He saw dark, glossy hair. Her head rested on her arm which lay nearly touching him at the edge of the bed. He examined the pale delicate skin of her throat, the fine gold chain that lay against it, the cross he knew dangled from it had been her mother's but, it was hidden under the chaste neckline of her t-shirt.

She looked so peaceful. He lay quietly gazing at her, not wanting to wake Sleeping Beauty - his angry little princess. Without speaking, he closed his eyes and a small smile drew up the corners of his mouth as he returned to the land where nothing ever hurt and no one ever died.

...

It had been a long week. He lay plotting how to escape from this sterile prison and the tormenters who always managed to wake him in the middle of a sleep cycle and poke him with needles while saying in much too cheerful a tone; "Just a little pinch now, it won't hurt."

_"My ass."_ he always thought, _"If it doesn't hurt, then why don't you trade places with me so I can poke you full of holes while chirping meaningless inanities._

Jane lay with a scowl on his face as the latest vial of his too precious blood was carried off by Dracula's phlebotomist.

"Hey." said Ortega as he wheeled himself into Jane's room.

"Hey." said Jane as his scowl disappeared and was replaced by a genuine smile. "Are you supposed to be wandering around the hospital by yourself? That big scary nurse is going to find you and haul your ass back to your room."

"Eh, she's got the hots for me. She lets me wander if I want to."

Jane just smiled, amused by Ortega's seeming confidence at manipulating the tall, Rubenesque woman who'd already busted him earlier in the day for trying to get out of bed on his own. She'd also told him to stop whining or she'd sedate him. He knew she couldn't legally do that without his permission but, she was kinda scary. He'd gotten back into bed just in case.

"Well, compadre, we both made it!" triumphantly crowed the still slightly ashen detective.

"Yeah, but I bet I have a more interesting scar."

"Probably so. I only got stabbed and hit my head. You, mi amigo, almost got filleted like a trout. Hurt much?" asked the detective; concern in his voice.

"Meh. They're still giving me good drugs. Everything's still kinda numb. As soon as I can stand up though, I'm outta here."

"Good luck. Hopefully, Candy won't be on duty then. She'd drag your carcass back here before you could get to the door and tie you to your bed."

"Candy?"

"She gave me her number. She lives in North Hollywood."

"That's a lot of woman. You sure you're up to it?" smiled Jane

"We all have to have our goals." said the detective, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

Jane didn't really want to dwell on what that meant and reached for the plastic pitcher of water to unsteadily pour himself a cup. He noticed the change in Ortega's expression before the detective spoke again. The smile was gone.

"Agent Lisbon came to visit me. She's still worried about you. Said you told her Polmocena came to see you here."

"Why would that bother her?" asked Jane, his forehead creasing in puzzlement.

"Well," Ortega hesitated before plunging on. "They found the old lady dead on her kitchen floor a couple of nights ago; before our asses even wound up here. I didn't find out until Lowry mentioned it last night; natural causes."

Jane's eyes widened slightly then a mask came over his face. His expression unreadable.

"She was an interesting lady." supplied Ortega, hoping Jane would take the ball and run with it.

The consultant looked toward the golden light that shone through the blinds. He seemed deep in thought.

"She saved my life." he said finally.

"Maybe, but you'd probably have only gotten a little beat up. I don't think the homies would have killed you unless you gave them good reason but, somehow, that's not too hard to imagine." Ortega's brown eyes crinkled at the corners as his smile once more made an appearance.

"No, I don't mean that night I went on my little adventure." said Jane

"What do you mean?"

"Long story."

There was nothing further from the man in the bed.

"Well, if you say she visited you here, I'm not going to doubt it. You seem to have something going on that I don't really understand but, it's not for me to question. It's bugging the crap outta Lisbon though."

Taking a few more moments to gather his thoughts, Jane began, "Polmocena told me all was well now. The baby is safe, my compadre . . . I'm assuming that means you, were safe. She said La Ciudad, (the city), is going back to the way it usually is . . . I'm assuming that means just your standard everyday murder and mayhem."

"Well" said Ortega, "El Viento de Satan' has left us. The wind's finally gone!" he said sighing dramatically in relief. "About time too. I thought it was just going to blow us all to hell. I think its God's punishment for letting the Kardashians live here."

Jane let out a huff of amusement at the reference to the family who was famous for being famous.

"Takes all kinds." he said, actually breaking into a smile, the clouds at bay for now.

"So, let's see the scar." smiled Ortega

Jane looked startled then grinned and gingerly pushed back the sheet to expose the bandage on his midsection. He'd been afraid to look, actually, and had always averted his eyes when the wound was re-dressed. He was glad Ortega was here to help him view the damages for the first time.

He carefully peeled loose some of the adhesive that held the bandage in place and lifted the gauze off. A neat row of blue stitches on orange stained skin lead from just under his ribs near the center of his chest downward to his right hipbone.

"Shit!" both men exclaimed at once. Jane stared at his surgeon's handiwork for another moment before swallowing and gingerly patting the tape back down and pulling the sheet back up to his chest.

The detective noted the blonde man's even paler complexion.

"Interesting scar to show the ninos and ninas," said Ortega

"Kids? I don't think so." said Jane almost automatically still trying to come to grips with how close he'd come to his own mortality.

"Don't scoff, mi amigo." said Ortega with a mischievous look. "The bruja, rest her soul, said to tell you, after this was over, that there will be four of them and they'll all have dark, curly hair and green eyes."

Jane couldn't help but look astonished. "Four?" he said, raising his eyebrows and swallowing audibly.

"Yup, and you've already met their mother.", said the earnest detective taking in Jane's startled expression.

"No shit?" muttered the consultant

"She's never steered you wrong before, Angel." smiled Ortega wickedly, white teeth flashing below the bristly mustache.

...

Eso Es Todo

(That's all)

*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*CBI*

**Please** Review to let me know your final thoughts on this story. There'll be another in a month or so but, never again, will I lock myself into a plot that can't be weasled out of. Also, I think I learned more about Aztecs than I really wanted to know.


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